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USmrn 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


S.  EDWIN  CORLE,  JR. 

HIS  BOOK 


PS 
3503 
U.W36 

C3 
*#   TH*V,    ^^x^v^x?   O^^v^^f  %*-  (*&**&*+*  + 

a  •  >  J  f 

V  ^uu.    /  M^^oto  . 


THE 
CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 


THE  ILLUSTRATIONS  SHOWN 
IN  THIS  EDITION  ARE  RE- 
PRODUCTIONS  OF  SCENES 
FROM  THE  PHOTOPLAY  OF 
"THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBER- 
LANDS,"  PRODUCED  AND 
COPYRIGHTED  BY  PALLAS 
PICTURES,  TO  WHOM  THE 
PUBLISHERS  DESIRE  TO  EX 
PRESS  THEIR  THANKS  AND 
APPRECIATION  FOR  PERMIS 
SION  TO  USE  THE  PICTURES. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE 
CUMBERLANDS 

BY 

CHARLES  NEVILLE  BUCK 

AUTHOR   OF 
THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  SCENES  FROM  THE  PHOTO- 

PLAY   PRODUCED  AND  COPYRIGHTED 

.BY    PALLAS    PICTURES. 


GROSSET 

PUBLISHERS 


&    DUNLAP 

:-:  NEW     YORK 


COPYRIGHT  1913  BY 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 


Published  March 


Other  novels  by 
Charles  Neville  Buck 

THE  KEY  TO  YESTERDAY 
THE  LIGHTED  MATCH 
THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 


The  Call  of  the  Cumberlands 


CHAPTER  I 

CLOSE  to  the  serried  backbone  of  the  Cumberland 
ridge  through  a  sky  of  mountain  clarity,  the 
sun  seemed  hesitating  before  its  descent  to  the 
horizon.  The  sugar-loaf  cone  that  towered  above  a 
creek  called  Misery  was  pointed  and  edged  with  emer 
ald  tracery  where  the  loftiest  timber  thrust  up  its  crest 
plumes  into  the  sun.  On  the  hillsides  it  would  be  light 
for  more  than  an  hour  yet,  but  below,  where  the  waters 
tossed  themselves  along  in  a  chorus  of  tiny  cascades,  the 
light  was  already  thickening  into  a  cathedral  gloom. 
Down  there  the  "furriner"  would  have  seen  only  the 
rough  course  of  the  creek  between  moss-velveted  and 
shaded  bowlders  of  titanic  proportions.  The  native 
would  have  recognized  the  country  road  in  these  tortu 
ous  twistings.  Now  there  were  no  travelers,  foreign 
or  native,  and  no  sounds  from  living  throats  except 
at  intervals  the  clear  "Bob  White"  of  a  nesting  par 
tridge,  and  the  silver  confidence  of  the  red  cardinal 
flitting  among  the  pines.  Occasionally,  too,  a  stray 
whisper  of  breeze  stole  along  the  creek-bed  and  rustled 
the  beeches,  or  stirred  in  the  broad,  fanlike  leaves  of 
the  "cucumber  trees."  A  great  block  of  sandstone, 

1 


2        THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

to  whose  summit  a  man  standing  in  his  saddle  could 
scarcely  reach  his  fingertips,  towered  above  the  stream, 
with  a  gnarled  scrub  oak  clinging  tenaciously  to  its 
apex.  Loftily  on  both  sides  climbed  the  mountains 
cloaked  in  laurel  and  timber. 

Suddenly  the  leafage  was  thrust  aside  from  above  by  a 
cautious  hand,  and  a  shy,  half -wild  girl  appeared  in  the 
opening.  For  an  instant  she  halted,  with  her  brown 
fingers  holding  back  the  brushwood,  and  raised  her  face 
as  though  listening.  Across  the  slope  drifted  the  call 
of  the  partridge,  and  with  perfect  imitation  she  whis 
tled  back  an  answer.  It  would  have  seemed  appropriate 
to  anyone  who  had  seen  her  that  she  should  talk  bird 
language  to  the  birds.  She  was  herself  as  much  a  wood 
creature  as  they,  and  very  young.  That  she  was 
beautiful  was  not  strange.  The  women  of  the  moun 
tains  have  a  morning-glory  bloom — until  hardship  and 
drudgery  have  taken  toll  of  their  youth — and  she  could 
not  have  been  more  than  sixteen. 

It  was  June,  and  the  hills,  which  would  be  bleakly 
forbidding  barriers  in  winter,  were  now  as  blithely 
young  as  though  they  had  never  known  the  scourging 
of  sleet  or  the  blight  of  wind.  The  world  was  abloom, 
and  the  girl,  too,  was  in  her  early  June,  and  sentiently 
alive  with  the  strength  of  its  full  pulse-tide.  She  was 
slim  and  lithely  resilient  of  step.  Her  listening  atti 
tude  was  as  eloquent  of  pausing  elasticity  as  that  of 
the  gray  squirrel.  Her  breathing  was  soft,  though  she 
had  come  down  a  steep  mountainside,  and  as  fragrant 
as  the  breath  of  the  elder  bushes  that  dashed  the  banks 
with  white  sprays  of  blossom.  She  brought  with  her 
to  the  greens  and  grays  and  browns  of  the  woodland's 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS         3 

heart  a  new  note  of  color,  for  her  calico  dress  was  like 
the  red  cornucopias  of  the  trumpet-flower,  and  her 
eyes  were  blue  like  little  scraps  of  sky.  Her  heavy, 
brown-red  hair  fell  down  over  her  shoulders  in  loose 
profusion.  The  coarse  dress  was  freshly  briar-torn, 
and  in  many  places  patched;  and  it  hung  to  the  lithe 
curves  of  her  body  in  a  fashion  which  told  that  she  wore 
little  else.  She  had  no  hat,  but  the  same  spirit  of  child 
like  whimsey  that  caused  her  eyes  to  dance  as  she 
answered  the  partridge's  call  had  led  her  to  fashion  for 
her  own  crowning  a  headgear  of  laurel  leaves  and  wild 
roses.  As  she  stood  with  the  toes  of  one  bare  foot 
twisting  in  the  gratefully  cool  moss,  she  laughed  with 
the  sheer  exhilaration  of  life  and  youth,  and  started  out 
on  the  table  top  of  the  huge  rock.  But  there  she 
halted  suddenly  with  a  startled  exclamation,  and  drew 
instinctively  back.  What  she  saw  might  well  have 
astonished  her,  for  it  was  a  thing  she  had  never  seen 
before  and  of  which  she  had  never  heard.  Now  she 
paused  in  indecision  between  going  forward  toward 
exploration  and  retreating  from  new  and  unexplained 
phenomena.  In  her  quick  instinctive  movements  was 
something  like  the  irresolution  of  the  fawn  whose  nos 
trils  have  dilated  to  a  sense  of  possible  daager.  Finally, 
reassured  by  the  silence,  she  slipped  across  the  broad 
face  of  the  flat  rock  for  a  distance  of  twenty-five  feet, 
and  paused  again  to  listen. 

At  the  far  edge  lay  a  pair  of  saddlebags,  Luch  as 
form  the  only  practical  equipment  for  mountain 
travelers.  They  were  ordinary  saddlebags,  made  from 
the  undressed  hide  of  a  brindle  cow,  and  they  were 
fat  with  tight  packing.  A  pair  of  saddlebags  lying 


4         THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

unclaimed  at  the  roadside  would  in  themselves  challenge 
curiosity.  But  in  this  instance  they  gave  only  the 
prefatory  note  to  a  stranger  story.  Near  them  lay  a 
tin  box,  littered  with  small  and  unfamiliar-looking  tubes 
of  soft  metal,  all  grotesquely  twisted  and  stained,  and 
beside  the  box  was  a  strangely  shaped  plaque  of  wood, 
smeared  with  a  dozen  hues.  That  this  plaque  was  a 
painter's  sketching  palette  was  a  thing  which  she  could 
not  know,  since  the  ways  of  artists  had  to  do  with  a 
world  as  remote  from  her  own  as  the  life  of  the  moon 
or  stars.  It  was  one  of  those  vague  mysteries  that  made 
up  the  wonderful  life  of  "down  below."  Even  the 
names  of  such  towns  as  Louisville  and  Lexington  meant 
nothing  definite  to  this  girl  who  could  barely  spell  out, 
"The  cat  caught  the  rat,"  in  the  primer.  Yet  here 
beside  the  box  and  palette  stood  a  strange  jointed  tri 
pod,  and  upon  it  was  some  sort  of  sheet.  What  it  all 
meant,  and  what  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  sheet 
became  a  matter  of  keenly  alluring  interest.  Why  had 
these  things  been  left  here  in  such  confusion  ?  If  there 
was  a  man  about  who  owned  them  he  would  doubtless 
return  to  claim  them.  Possibly  he  was  wandering  about 
the  broken  bed  of  the  creek,  searching  for  a  spring, 
and  that  would  not  take  long.  No  one  drank  creek 
water.  At  any  moment  he  might  return  and  discover 
her.  Such  a  contingency  held  untold  terrors  for  her 
shyness,  and  yet  to  turn  her  back  on  so  interesting 
a  mystery  would  be  insupportable.  Accordingly,  she 
crept  over,  eyes  and  ears  alert,  and  slipped  around  to 
the  front  of  the  queer  tripod,  with  all  her  muscles 
poised  in  readiness  for  flight.  » 

A  half-rapturous  and  utterly  astonished  cry  broke 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS         5 

[from  her  lips.  She  stared  a  moment,  then  dropped  to 
the  moss-covered  rock,  leaning  back  on  her  brown  hands 
and  gazing  intently.  She  sat  there  forgetful  of  every 
thing  except  the  sketch  which  stood  on  the  collapsible 
easel. 

"Hit's  purty !"  she  approved,  in  a  low,  musical  mur 
mur.  "Hit's  plumb  dead  beautiful!"  Her  eyes  were 
gloAving  with  delighted  approval. 

She  had  never  before  seen  a  picture  more  worthy 
than  the  chromos  of  advertising  calendars  and  the  few 
crude  prints  that  find  their  way  into  the  roughest  places, 
and  she  was  a  passionate,  though  totally  unconscious, 
devotee  of  beauty.  Now  she  was  sitting  before  a  sketch, 
its  paint  still  moist,  which  more  severe  critics  would 
have  pronounced  worthy  of  accolade.  Of  course,  it  was 
not  a  finished  picture — merely  a  study  of  what  lay 
before  her — but  the  hand  that  had  placed  these  brush 
strokes  on  the  academy  board  was  the  sure,  deft  hand 
of  a  master  of  landscape,  who  had  caught  the  splendid 
spirit  of  the  thing,  and  fixed  it  immutably  in  true  and 
glowing  appreciation.  Who  he  was  ;  where  he  had  gone ; 
why  his  work  stood  there  unfinished  and  abandoned, 
were  details  which  for  the  moment  this  half-savage 
child-woman  forgot  to  question.  She  was  conscious 
only  of  a  sense  of  revelation  and  awe.  Then  she  saw 
other  boards,  like  the  one  upon  the  easel,  piled  near 
the  paint-box.  These  were  dry,  and  represented  the 
work  of  other  days ;  but  they  were  all  pictures  of  her 
own  mountains,  and  in  each  of  them,  as  in  this  one, 
was  something  that  made  her  heart  leap. 

To  her  own  people,  these  steep  hillsides  and  "coves" 
and  valleys  were  a  matter  of  course.  In  their  stony 


6         THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

soil,  they  labored  by  day:  and  in  their  shadows  slept 
when  work  was  done.  Yet,  someone  had  discovered  that 
they  held  a  picturesque  and  rugged  beauty;  that  they 
were  not  merely  steep  fields  where  the  plough  was  use 
less  and  the  hoe  must  be  used.  She  must  tell  Samson: 
Samson,  whom  she  held  in  an  artless  exaltation  of  hero- 
worship;  Samson,  who  was  so  "smart"  that  he  thought 
about  things  beyond  her  understanding;  Samson,  who 
could  not  only  read  and  write,  but  speculate  on  prob 
lematical  matters. 

Suddenly  she  came  to  her  feet  with  a  swift-darting 
impulse  of  alarm.  Her  ear  had  caught  a  sound.  She 
cast  searching  glances  about  her,  but  the  tangle  was 
empty  of  humanity.  The  water  still  murmured  over  the 
rocks  undisturbed.  There  was  no  sign  of  human  pres 
ence,  other  than  herself,  that  her  eyes  could  discover — • 
and  yet  to  her  ears  came  the  sound  again,  and  this  time 
more  distinctly.  It  was  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice,  and 
it  was  moaning  as  if  in  pain.  She  rose  and  searched 
vainly  through  the  bushes  of  the  hillside  where  the  rock 
ran  out  from  the  woods.  She  lifted  her  skirts  and 
splashed  her  bare  feet  in  the  shallow  creek  water,  wading 
persistently  up  and  down.  Her  shyness  was  forgotten. 
The  groan  was  a  groan  of  a  human  creature  in  distress, 
9.nd  she  must  find  and  succor  the  person  from  whom  it 
came. 

Certain  sounds  are  baffling  as  to  direction.  A  voice 
irom  overhead  or  broken  by  echoing  obstacles  does  not 
readily  betray  its  source.  Finally  she  stood  up  and 
listened  once  more  intently — her  attitude  full  of  tense 
earnestness. 

"I'm  shore  a  fool,"  she  announced,  half -aloud.     "I'm 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS         7 

shore  a  plumb  fool."  Then  she  turned  and  disappeared 
in  the  deep  cleft  between  the  gigantic  bowlder  upon 
which  she  had  been  sitting  and  another — small  only 
by  comparison.  There,  ten  feet  down,  in  a  narrow  alley 
littered  with  ragged  stones,  lay  the  crumpled  body  of 
a  man.  It  lay  with  the  left  arm  doubled  under  it,  and 
from  a  gash  in  the  forehead  trickled  a  thin  stream  of 
blood.  Also,  it  was  the  body  of  such  a  man  as  she  had 
not  seen  before. 


CHAPTER  H 

A  LTHOUGH  from  the  man  in  the  gulch  came  a  low 
./"m,  groan  mingled  with  his  breathing,  it  was  not 
such  a  sound  as  comes  from  fully  conscious  lips, 
but  rather  that  of  a  brain  dulled  into  coma.  His  lids 
drooped  over  his  eyes,  hiding  the  pupils ;  and  his  cheeks 
were  pallid,  with  outstanding  veins  above  the  temples. 
Freed  from  her  fettering  excess  of  shyness  by  his 
condition,  the  girl  stepped  surely  from  foothold  to  foot 
hold  until  she  reached  his  side.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
with  one  hand  on  the  dripping  walls  of  rock,  looking 
down  while  her  hair  fell  about  her  face.  Then,  drop 
ping  to  her  knees,  she  shifted  the  doubled  body  into  a 
leaning  posture,  straightened  the  limbs,  and  began 
exploring  with  efficient  fingers  for  broken  bones. 

She  was  a  slight  girl,  and  not  tall;  but  the  curves 
of  her  young  figure  were  slimly  rounded,  and  her  firm 
muscles  were  capably  strong.  This  man  was,  in  com 
parison  with  those  rugged  types  she  knew,  effeminately 
delicate.  His  slim,  long-fingered  hands  reminded  her  of 
a  bird's  claws.  The  up-rolled  sleeves  of  a  blue  flannel 
shirt  disclosed  forearms  well-enough  sinewed,  but  in 
stead  of  being  browned  to  the  hue  of  a  saddle-skirt,  they 
were  white  underneath  and  pinkly  red  above.  More 
over,  they  were  scaling  in  the  fashion  of  a  skin  not 
inured  to  weather  beating.  Though  the  man  had 
thought  on  setting  out  from  civilization  that  he  was 

8 


suiting  his  appearance  to  the  environment,  the  impres 
sion  he  made  on  this  native  girl  was  distinctly  foreign. 
The  flannel  shirt  might  have  passed,  though  hardly 
without  question,  as  native  wear,  but  the  khaki  riding- 
breeches  and  tan  puttees  were  utterly  out  of  the  picture, 
and  at  the  neck  of  his  shirt  was  a  soft-blue  tie! — had 
he  not  been  hurt,  the  girl  must  have  laughed  at  that. 

A  felt  hat  lay  in  a  puddle  of  water,  and,  except  for 
a  blond  mustache,  the  face  was  clean  shaven  and  smooth 
of  skin.  Long  locks  of  brown  hair  fell  away  from 
the  forehead.  The  helplessness  and  pallor  gave  an 
exaggerated  seeming  of  frailty. 

Despite  an  ingrained  contempt  for  weaklings,  the 
girl  felt,  as  she  raised  the  head  and  propped  the 
shoulders,  an  intuitive  friendliness  for  the  mysterious 
stranger. 

She  had  found  the  left  arm  limp  above  the  wrist,  and 
her  fingers  had  diagnosed  a  broken  bone.  But  uncon 
sciousness  must  have  come  from  the  blow  on  the  head, 
where  a  bruise  was  already  blackening,  and  a  gash  still 
trickled  blood. 

She  lifted  her  skirt,  and  tore  a  long  strip  of  cotton 
from  her  single  petticoat.  Then  she  picked  her  bare 
footed  way  swiftly  to  the  creek-bed,  where  she  drenched 
the  cloth  for  bathing  and  bandaging  the  wound.  It 
required  several  trips  through  the  littered  cleft,  for  the 
puddles  between  the  rocks  were  stale  and  brackish ;  but 
these  journeys  she  made  with  easy  and  untrammeled 
swiftness.  When  she  had  done  what  she  could  by  way 
of  first  aid,  she  stood  looking  down  at  the  man,  and 
shook  her  head  dubiously. 


10       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Now  ef  I  jest  had  a  little  licker,"  she  mused.  "Thet 
air  what  he  needs — a  little  licker!" 

A  sudden  inspiration  turned  her  eyes  to  the  crest  of 
the  rock.  She  did  not  go  round  by  the  path,  but  pulled 
herself  up  the  sheer  face  by  hanging  roots  and  slippery 
projections,  as  easily  as  a  young  squirrel.  On  the 
flat  surface,  she  began  unstrapping  the  saddlebags, 
and,  after  a  few  moments  of  rummaging  among  their 
contents,  she  smiled  with  satisfaction.  Her  hand 
brought  out  a  leather-covered  flask  with  a  silver  bottom. 
She  held  the  thing  up  curiously,  and  looked  at  it.  For 
a  little  time,  the  screw  top  puzzled  her.  So,  she  sat 
down  cross-legged,  and  experimented  until  she  had 
solved  its  method  of  opening. 

Then,  she  slid  over  the  side  again,  and  at  the  bottom 
held  the  flask  up  to  the  light.  Through  the  side  slits 
in  the  alligator-skin  covering,  she  saw  the  deep  color 
of  the  contents ;  and,  as  she  lifted  the  nozzle,  she  sniffed 
contemptuously.  Then,  she  took  a  sample  draught  her 
self — to  make  certain  that  it  was  whiskey. 

She  brushed  her  lips  scornfully  with  the  back  of  her 
hand. 

"Huh!"  she  exclaimed.  "Hit  hain't  nothin'  but  red 
licker,  but  maybe  hit  mout  be  better'n  nuthin'."  She 
was  accustomed  to  seeing  whiskey  freely  drunk,  but  the 
whiskey  she  knew  was  colorless  as  water,  and  sweetish 
to  the  palate. 

She  knew  the  "mountain  dew"  which  paid  no  reve 
nue  tax,  and  which,  as  her  people  were  fond  of  saying, 
"mout  make  a  man  drunk,  but  couldn't  git  him  wrong." 
After  tasting  the  "fotched-on"  substitute,  she  gravely, 
in  accordance  with  the  fixed  etiquette  of  the  hills,  wiped 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       11 

the  mouth  of  the  bottle  on  the  palm  of  her  hand,  then, 
kneeling  once  more  on  the  stones,  she  lifted  the  stran 
ger's  head  in  her  supporting  arm,  and  pressed  the 
flask  to  his  lips.  After  that,  she  chafed  the  wrist 
which  was  not  hurt,  and  once  more  administered 
the  tonic.  Finally,  the  man's  lids  fluttered,  and 
his  lips  moved.  Then,  he  opened  his  eyes.  He  opened 
them  waveringly,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  closing 
them  again,  when  he  became  conscious  of  a  curved 
cheek,  suddenly  coloring  to  a  deep  flush,  a  few  inches 
from  his  own.  He  saw  in  the  same  glance  a  pair  of 
wide  blue  eyes,  a  cloud  of  brown-red  hair  that  fell  down 
and  brushed  his  face,  and  he  felt  a  slender  young  arm 
about  his  neck  and  shoulders. 

"Hello !"  said  the  stranger,  vaguely.  "I  seem  to 

have "  He  broke  off,  and  his  lips  smiled.  It  was 

a  friendly,  understanding  smile,  and  the  girl,  fighting 
hard  the  shy  impulse  to  drop  his  shoulders,  and  flee  into 
the  kind  masking  of  the  bushes,  was  in  a  measuie 
reassured. 

"You  must  hev  fell  offen  the  rock,"  she  enlightened. 

"I  think  I  might  have  fallen  into  worse  circuit 
Stances,"  replied  the  unknown. 

'"I  reckon  you  kin  set  up  after  a  little." 

"Yes,  of  course."  The  man  suddenly  realized  that 
although  he  was  quite  comfortable  as  he  was,  he  could 
scarcely  expect  to  remain  permanently  in  the  support 
of  her  bent  arm.  He  attempted  to  prop  himself  on  his 
hurt  hand,  and  relaxed  with  a  twinge  of  extreme  pain. 
The  color,  which  had  begun  to  creep  back  into  his 
cheeks,  left  them  again,  and  his  lips  compressed  them 
selves  tightly  to  bite  off  an  exclamation  of  suffering. 


12       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Thet  thar  left  arm  air  busted,"  announced  the  young 
woman,  quietly.  "Ye've  got  ter  be  heedful." 

Had  one  of  her  own  men  hurt  himself,  and  behaved 
stoically,  it  would  have  been  mere  matter  of  course ;  but 
her  eyes  mirrored  a  pleased  surprise  at  the  stranger's 
good-natured  nod  and  his  quiet  refusal  to  give  expres 
sion  to  pain.  It  relieved  her  of  the  necessity  for 
contempt. 

"I'm  afraid,"  apologized  the  painter,  "that  I've  been 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  you." 

Her  lips  and  eyes  were  sober  as  she  replied. 

"I  reckon  thet's  all  right." 

"And  what's  worse,  I've  got  to  be  more  trouble.  Did 
you  see  anything  of  a  brown  mule?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He  must  have  wandered  off.  May  I  ask  to  whom 
I'm  indebted  for  this  first  aid  to  the  injured?" 

"I  don't  know  what  ye  means." 

She  had  propped  him  against  the  rocks,  and  sat 
near-by,  looking  into  his  face  with  almost  disconcerting 
steadiness ;  her  solemn-pupiled  eyes  were  unblinking, 
unsmiling.  Unaccustomed  to  the  gravity  of  the  moun 
taineer  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  he  feared  that  he 
had  offended  her.  Perhaps  his  form  of  speech  struck 
her  as  affected. 

"Why,  I  mean  who  are  you?"  he  laughed. 

"I  hain't  nobody  much.    I  jest  lives  over  yon." 

"But,"  insisted  the  man,  "surely  you  have  a  name." 

She  nodded. 

"Hit's  Sally." 

"Then,  Miss  Sally,  I  want  to  thank  you." 

Once  more  she  nodded,  and,  for  the  first  time,  let 


her  eyes  drop,  while  she  sat  nursing  her  knees.  Finally, 
she  glanced  up,  and  asked  with  plucked-up  courage: 

"Stranger,  what  mout  yore  name  be?" 

"Lescott — George  Lescott." 

"How'd  ye  git  hurt?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  was  painting — up  there,"  he  said;  "and  I  guess 
I  got  too  absorbed  in  the  work.  I  stepped  backward 
to  look  at  the  canvas,  and  forgot  where  the  edge  was. 
I  stepped  too  far." 

"Hit  don't  hardly  pay  a  man  ter  walk  backward  in 
these  hyar  mountings,"  she  told  him.  The  painter 
looked  covertly  up  to  see  if  at  last  he  had  discovered 
a  flash  of  humor.  He  had  the  idea  that  her  lips  would 
shape  themselves  rather  fascinatingly  in  a  smile,  but 
her  pupils  mirrored  no  mirth.  She  had  spoken  in 
perfect  seriousness. 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet,  but  he  tottered  and  reeled 
against  the  wall  of  ragged  stone.  The  blow  on  his  head 
had  left  him  faint  and  dizzy.  He  sat  down  again. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  ruefully  admitted,  "that  I'm  not 
quite  ready  for  discharge  from  your  hospital." 

"You  jest  set  where  yer  at."  The  girl  rose,  and 
pointed  up  the  mountainside.  "I'll  light  out  across  the 
hill,  and  fotch  Samson  an'  his  mule." 

"Who  and  where  is  Samson?"  he  inquired.  He 
realized  that  the  bottom  of  the  valley  would  shortly 
thicken  into  darkness,  and  that  the  way  out,  unguided, 
would  become  impossible.  "It  sounds  like  the  name  of  a 
strong  man." 

"I  means  Samson  South,"  she  enlightened,  as  though 


14       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

further  description  of  one  so  celebrated  would  be  re 
dundant.  "He's  over  thar  'bout  three  quarters." 

"Three  quarters  of  a  mile  ?" 

She  nodded.     What  else  could  three  quarters  mean? 

"How  long  will  it  take  you?"  he  asked. 

She  deliberated.  "Samson's  hoein'  corn  in  the  fur- 
hill  field.  He'll  hev  ter  cotch  his  mule.  Hit  mout  tek 
a  half -hour." 

Lescott  had  been  riding  the  tortuous  labyrinths  that 
twisted  through  creek  bottoms  and  over  ridges  for  sev 
eral  days.  In  places  two  miles  an  hour  had  been  his 
rate  of  speed,  though  mounted  and  following  so-called 
roads.  She  must  climb  a  mountain  through  the  woods. 
He  thought  it  "mout"  take  longer,  and  his  scepticism 
found  utterance. 

"You  can't  do  it  in  a  half -hour,  can  you?" 

"I'll  jest  take  my  foot  in  my  hand,  an'  light  out." 
She  turned,  and  with  a  nod  was  gone.  The  man  rose, 
and  made  his  way  carefully  over  to  a  mossy  bank,  ^-here 
he  sat  down  with  his  back  against  a  century-old  tree 
to  wait. 

The  beauty  of  this  forest  interior  had  first  lured  him 
to  pause,  and  then  to  begin  painting.  The  place  had 
not  treated  him  kindly,  as  the  pain  in  his  wrist  reminded 
him,  but  the  beauty  was  undeniable.  A  clump  of  rho 
dodendron,  a  little  higher  up,  dashed  its  pale  clusters 
against  a  background  of  evergreen  thicket,  and  a 
catalpa  tree  loaned  the  perfume  of  its  white  blossoms 
with  their  wild  little  splashes  of  crimson  and  purple 
and  orange  to  the  incense  which  the  elder  bushes  were 
contributing. 

Climbing  fleetly  up  through  steep  and  tangled 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       15 

and  running  as  fleetly  down ;  crossing  a  brawling  little 
stream  on  a  slender  trunk  of  fallen  poplar ;  the  girl 
hastened  on  her  mission.  Her  lungs  drank  the  clear 
air  in  regular  tireless  draughts.  Once  only,  she  stopped 
and  drew  back.  There  was  a  sinister  rustle  in  the  grass, 
and  something  glided  into  her  path  and  lay  coiled 
there,  challenging  her  with  an  ominous  rattle,  and  with 
wicked,  beady  eyes  glittering  out  of  a  swaying,  arrow- 
shaped  head.  Her  own  eyes  instinctively  hardened,  and 
she  glanced  quickly  about  for  a  heavy  piece  of  loose 
timber.  But  that  was  only  for  an  instant,  then  she 
took  a  circuitous  course,  and  left  her  enemy  in  undis 
puted  possession  of  the  path. 

"I  hain't  got  no  time  ter  fool  with  ye  now,  old  rattle 
snake,"  she  called  back,  as  she  went.  "Ef  I  wasn't  in 
sech  a  hurry,  I'd  shore  bust  yer  neck." 

At  last,  she  came  to  a  point  where  a  clearing  rose  on 
the  mountainside  above  her.  The  forest  blanket  was 
stripped  off  to  make  way  for  a  fenced-in  and  crazily 
tilting  field  of  young  corn.  High  up  and  beyond, 
close  to  the  bald  shoulders  of  sandstone  which  threw 
themselves  against  the  sky,  was  the  figure  of  a  man.  As 
the  girl  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  field,  at  last  panting 
from  her  exertions,  he  was  sitting  on  the  rail  fence, 
looking  absently  down  on  the  outstretched  panorama 
below  him.  It  is  doubtful  whether  his  dreaming  eyes 
were  as  conscious  of  what  he  saw  as  of  other  things 
which  his  imagination  saw  beyond  the  haze  of  the  last 
far  rim.  Against  the  fence  rested  his  abandoned  hoe, 
and  about  him  a  number  of  lean  hounds  scratched  and 
dozed  in  the  sun.  Samson  South  had  little  need  of 
hounds;  but,  in  another  century,  his  people,  turning 


their  backs  on  Virginii  affluence  to  invite  the  hardships 
of  pioneer  life,  had  orought  with  them  certain  of  the 
cavaliers'  instincts.  A  hundred  years  in  the  stagnant 
back-waters  of  the  world  had  brought  to  their  descend 
ants  a  lapse  into  illiteracy  and  semi-squalor,  but 
through  it  all  had  fought  that  thin,  insistent  flame  of 
instinct.  Such  a  survival  was  the  boy's  clinging  to  his 
hounds.  Once,  they  had  symbolized  the  spirit  of  the 
nobility;  the  gentleman's  fondness  for  his  sport  with 
horse  and  dog  and  gun.  Samson  South  did  not  know 
the  origin  of  his  fondness  for  this  remnant  of  a  pack. 
He  did  not  know  that  in  the  long  ago  his  forefathers 
had  fought  on  red  fields  with  Bruce  and  the  Stuarts. 
He  only  knew  that  through  his  crudities  something 
indefinable,  yet  compelling,  was  at  war  with  his  life, 
filling  him  with  great  and  shapeless  longings.  He  at 
once  loved  and  resented  these  ramparts  of  stone  that 
hemmed  in  his  hermit  race  and  world. 

He  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  man.  His  age  was 
perhaps  twenty.  He  sat  loose-jointed  and  indolent  on 
the  top  rail  of  the  fence,  his  hands  hanging  over  his 
knees:  his  hoe  forgotten.  His  feet  were  bare,  and  his 
jeans  breeches  were  supported  by  a  single  suspender 
strap.  Pushed  well  to  the  back  of  his  head  was  a  bat 
tered  straw  hat,  of  the  sort  rurally  known  as  the  "ten- 
cent  jimmy."  Under  its  broken  brim,  a  long  lock 
of  black  hair  fell  across  his  forehead.  So  much  of  his 
appearance  was  typical  of  the  Kentucky  mountaineer. 
His  face  was  strongly  individual,  and  belonged  to  no 
type.  Black  brows  and  lashes  gave  a  distinctiveness  to 
gray  eyes  so  clear  as  to  be  luminous.  A  high  and 
splendidly  molded  forehead  and  a  squarely  blocked 


171 

chin  were  free  of  that  degeneracy  which  marks  the 
wasting  of  an  in-bred  people.  The  nose  was  straight, 
and  the  mouth  firm  yet  mobile.  It  was  the  face  of  the 
instinctive  philosopher,  tanned  to  a  hickory  brown.  In 
a  stature  of  medium  size,  there  was  still  a  hint  of  power 
and  catamount  alertness.  If  his  attitude  was  at  the 
moment  indolent,  it  was  such  indolence  as  drowses  be 
tween  bursts  of  white-hot  activity;  a  fighting  man's 
aversion  to  manual  labor  which,  like  the  hounds,  harked 
back  to  other  generations.  Near-by,  propped  against 
the  rails,  rested  a  repeating  rifle,  though  the  people 
would  have  told  you  that  the  truce  in  the  "South- 
Hollman  war"  had  been  unbroken  for  two  years,  and 
that  no  clansman  need  in  these  halcyon  days  go  armed , 
afield. 


CHAPTER  HI 

• 

SALLY  clambered  lightly  over  the  fence,  and  started 
on  the  last  stage  of  her  journey,  the  climb  across 
the  young  corn  rows.    It  was  a  field  stood  on  end, 
and  the  hoed  ground  was  uneven ;  but  with  no  seeming 
of  weariness  her  red  dress  flashed  steadfastly  across  the 
green  spears,  and  her  voice  was  raised  to  shout :  "Hello, 
Samson !" 

The  young  man  looked  up  and  waved  a  languid 
greeting.  He  did  not  remove  his  hat  or  descend  from 
his  place  of  rest,  and  Sally,  who  expected  no  such  atten 
tion,  came  smilingly  on.  Samson  was  her  hero.  It 
seemed  quite  appropriate  that  one  should  have  to  climb 
steep  acclivities  to  reach  him.  Her  enamored  eyes  saw 
in  the  top  rail  of  the  fence  a  throne,  which  she  was 
content  to  address  from  the  ground  level.  That  he  was 
fond  of  her  and  meant  some  day  to  marry  her  she 
knew,  and  counted  herself  the  most  favored  of  women. 
The  young  men  of  the  neighboring  coves,  too,  knew 
it,  and  respected  his  proprietary  rights.  If  he  treated 
her  with  indulgent  tolerance  instead  of  chivalry,  he  was 
merely  adopting  the  accepted  attitude  of  the  mountain 
man  for  the  mountain  woman,  not  unlike  that  of  the 
red  warrior  for  his  squaw.  Besides,  Sally  was  still 
almost  a  child,  and  Samson,  with  his  twenty  years, 
looked  down  from  a  rank  of  seniority.  He  was  the 
legitimate  head  of  the  Souths,  and  some  day,  when 

IS 


THE  CALL  OP  THE  CUMBERLANDS       19 

the  present  truce  ended,  would  be  their  war-leader  with 
certain  blood  debts  to  pay.  Since  his  father  had  been 
killed  by  a  rifle  shot  from  ambush,  he  had  never  been 
permitted  to  forget  that,  and,  had  he  been  left  alone, 
he  would  still  have  needed  no  other  mentor  than  the 
rankle  in  his  heart. 

But,  if  Samson  sternly  smothered  the  glint  of  tender 
ness  which,  at  sight  of  her,  rose  to  his  eyes,  and  recog 
nized  her  greeting  only  in  casual  fashion,  it  was  because 
such  was  the  requirement  of  his  stoic  code.  And  to  the 
girl  who  had  been  so  slow  of  utterance  and  diffident 
with  the  stranger,  words  now  came  fast  and  fluently  as 
she  told  her  story  of  the  man  who  lay  hurt  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock. 

"Hit  hain't  long  now  tell  sundown,"  she  urged. 
"Hurry,  Samson,  an'  git  yore  mule.  I've  done  give  him 
my  promise  ter  fotch  ye  right  straight  back." 

Samson  took  off  his  hat,  and  tossed  the  heavy  lock 
upward  from  his  forehead.  His  brow  wrinkled  with 
doubts. 

"What  sort  of  lookin'  feller  air  he?" 

While  Sally  sketched  a  description,  the  young  man's 
doubt  grew  graver. 

"This  hain't  no  fit  time  ter  be  takin'  in  folks  what 
we  hain't  acquainted  with,"  he  objected.  In  the  moun 
tains,  any  time  is  the  time  to  take  in  strangers  unless 
there  are  secrets  to  be  guarded  from  outside  eyes. 

"Why  hain't  it?"  demanded  the  girl.  "He's  hurt. 
We  kain't  leave  him  layin'  thar,  kin  we?" 

Suddenly,  her  eyes  caught  sight  of  the  rifle  leaning 
near-by,  and  straightway  they  filled  with  apprehension. 
Her  militant  love  would  have  turned  to  hate  for  Samson, 


20      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

should  he  have  proved  recreant  to  the  mission  of  reprisal 
in  which  he  was  biding  his  time,  yet  the  coming  of  the 
day  when  the  truce  must  end  haunted  her  thoughts. 
Heretofore,  that  day  had  always  been  to  her  remotely 
vague — a  thing  belonging  to  the  future.  Now,  with 
a  sudden  and  appalling  menace,  it  seemed  to  loom  across 
the  present.  She  came  close,  and  her  voice  sank  with 
her  sinking  heart. 

"What  air  hit?"  she  tensely  demanded.  "What  air 
hit,  Samson  ?  What  f er  hev  ye  fetched  yer  gun  ter  the 
field?" 

The  boy  laughed.  "Oh,  hit  ain't  nothin'  pertic'ler," 
he  reassured.  "Hit  hain't  nothin'  fer  a  gal  ter  fret 
herself  erbout,  only  I  kinder  suspicions  strangers  jest 
now." 

"Air  the  truce  busted?"  She  put  the  question  in  a 
tense,  deep-breathed  whisper,  and  the  boy  replied  casu 
ally,  almost  indifferently. 

"No,  Sally,  hit  hain't  jest  ter  say  busted,  but  'pears 
like  hit's  right  smart  cracked.  I  reckon,  though,"  he 
added  in  half-disgust,  "nothin'  won't  come  of  hit." 

Somewhat  reassured,  she  bethought  herself  again  of 
her  mission. 

"This  here  furriner  hain't  got  no  harm  in  him,  Sam 
son,"  she  pleaded.  "He  'pears  ter  be  more  like  a  gal 
than  a  man.  He's  real  puny.  He's  got  white  skin  and 
a  bow  of  ribbon  on  his  neck — an'  he  paints  pictchers." 

The  boy's  face  had  been  hardening  with  contempt  as 
the  description  advanced,  but  at  the  last  words  a  glow 
came  to  his  eyes,  and  he  demanded  almost  breathlessly: 

"Paints  pictchers?     How  do  ye  know  that?" 

"I  seen  'em.     He  was  paintin'  one  when  he  fell  offen 


the  rock  and  busted  his  arm.  It's  shore  es  beautiful 
es — "  she  broke  off,  then  added  with  a  sudden  peal 
of  laughter — "es  er  pictcher." 

The  young  man  slipped  down  from  the  fence,  and 
reached  for  the  rifle.  The  hoe  he  left  where  it  stood. 

"I'll  git  the  nag,"  he  announced  briefly,  and  swung 
off  without  further  parley  toward  the  curling  spiral  of 
smoke  that  marked  a  cabin  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below. 
Ten  minutes  later,  his  bare  feet  swung  against  the 
ribs  of  a  gray  mule,  and  his  rifle  lay  balanced  across 
the  unsaddled  withers.  Sally  sat  mountain  fashion 
behind  him,  facing  straight  to  the  side. 

So  they  came  along  the  creek  bed  and  into  the  sight 
of  the  man  who  still  sat  propped  against  the  mossy 
rock.  As  Lescott  looked  up,  he  closed  the  case  of  his 
watch,  and  put  it  back  into  his  pocket  with  a  smile. 

"Snappy  work,  that!"  he  called  out.  "Just  thirty- 
three  minutes.  I  didn't  believe  it  could  be  done." 

Samson's  face  was  mask-like,  but,  as  he  surveyed  the 
foreigner,  only  the  ingrained  diqtates  of  the  country's 
hospitable  code  kept  out  of  his  eyes  a  gleam  of  scorn 
for  this  frail  member  of  a  sex  which  should  be  stalwart. 

"Howdy?"  he  said.  Then  he  added  suspiciously: 
"What  mout  yer  business  be  in  these  parts,  stranger?" 

Lescott  gave  the  odyssey  of  his  wanderings,  since  he 
had  rented  a  mule  at  Hixon  and  ridden  through  the 
country,  sketching  where  the  mood  prompted  and  sleep 
ing  wherever  he  found  a  hospitable  roof  at  the  coming 
of  the  evening. 

"Ye  come  from  over  on  Crippleshin  ?"  The  boy 
flashed  the  question  with  a  sudden  hardening  of  the 
Voice,  and,  when  he  was  affirmatively  answered,  his  eyes 


22      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

contracted  and  bored  searchingly  into  the  stranger's 
face. 

"Where'd  ye  put  up  last  night?" 

"Red  Bill  Hollman's  house,  at  the  mouth  of  Meeting 
House  Fork ;  do  you  know  the  place?" 

Samson's  reply  was  curt. 

"I  knows  hit  all  right." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause — rather  an  awkward 
pause.  Lescott's  mind  began  piecing  together  frag 
ments  of  conversation  he  had  heard,  until  he  had 
assembled  a  sort  cf  mental  jig-saw  puzzle. 

The  South-Hollman  feud  had  been  mentioned  by  the 
more  talkative  of  his  informers,  and  carefully  tabooed 
by  others — notable  among  them  his  host  of  last  night. 
It  now  dawned  on  him  that  he  was  crossing  the  boundary 
and  coming  as  the  late  guest  of  a  Hollman  to  ask  the 
hospitality  of  a  South. 

"I  didn't  know  whose  house  it  was,"  he  hastened  to 
explain,  "until  I  was  benighted,  and  asked  for  lodging. 
They  were  very  kind  to  me.  I'd  never  seen  them  before. 
I'm  a  stranger  hereabouts." 

Samson  only  nodded.  If  the  explanation  failed  to 
satisfy  him,  it  at  least  seemed  to  do  so. 

"I  reckon  ye'd  better  let  me  holp  ye  up  on  thet  old 
mule,"  he  said ;  "hit's  a-comin'  on  ter  be  night." 

With  the  mountaineer's  aid,  Lescott  clambered  astride 
the  mount,  then  he  turned  dubiously. 

"I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  he  ventured,  "but  I  have 
a  paint  box  and  some  materials  up  there.  If  you'll 
bring  them  down  here,  I'll  show  you  how  to  pack  the 
easel,  and,  by  the  way,"  he  anxiously  added,  "please 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS      23 

handle  that  fresh  canvas  carefully — by  the  edge — it's 
not  dry  yet. 

He  had  anticipated  impatient  contempt  for  his  artist's 
impedimenta,  but  to  his  surprise  the  mountain  boy 
climbed  the  rock,  and  halted  before  the  sketch  with  a 
face  that  slowly  softened  to  an  expression  of  amazed 
admiration.  Finally,  he  took  up  the  square  of  academy  - 
board  with  a  tender  care  of  which  his  rough  hands 
would  have  seemed  incapable,  and  stood  stock  still,  pre 
senting  an  anomalous  figure  in  his  rough  clothes  as  his 
eyes  grew  almost  idolatrous.  Then,  he  brought  th> 
landscape  over  to  its  creator,  and,  though  no  word  was 
spoken,  there  flashed  between  the  eyes  of  the  artist, 
whose  signature  gave  to  a  canvas  the  value  of  a  precious 
stone  and  the  jeans-clad  boy  whose  destiny  was  that  of 
the  vendetta,  a  subtle,  wordless  message.  It  was  the 
countersign  of  brothers-in-blood  who  recognize  in  each 
other  the  bond  of  a  mutual  passion. 

The  boy  and  the  girl,  under  Lescott's  direction, 
packed  the  outfit,  and  stored  the  canvas  in  the  pro 
tecting  top  of  the  box.  Then,  while  Sally  turned  and 
strode  down  creek  in  search  of  Lescott's  lost  mount, 
the  two  men  rode  up  stream  in  silence.  Finally  Samson 
spoke  slowly  and  diffidently. 

"Stranger,"  he  ventured,  "ef  hit  hain't  askin'  too 
much,  will  ye  let  me  see  ye  paint  one  of  them  things?" 

"Gladly,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

Then,  the  boy  added  covertly: 

"Don't  say  nothin'  erbout  hit  ter  none  of  these  folks. 
They'd  devil  me." 

The  dusk  was  falling  now,  and  the  hollows  choking 
with  murk.  Over  the  ridge,  the  evening  star  showed 


in  a  lonely  point  of  pallor.  The  peaks,  which  in  a 
broader  light  had  held  their  majestic  distances,  seemed 
with  the  falling  of  night  to  draw  in  and  huddle  close 
in  crowding  herds  of  black  masses.  The  distant  tink 
ling  of  a  cow-bell  came  drifting  down  the  breeze  with 
a  weird  and  fanciful  softness. 

"We're  nigh  home  now,"  said  Samson  at  the  end  of 
some  minutes'  silent  plodding.  "Hit's  right  beyond  thet 
thar  bend." 

Then,  they  rounded  a  point  of  timber,  and  came  upon 
a  small  party  of  men  whose  attitudes  even  in  the  dim 
ming  light  conveyed  a  subtle  suggestion  of  portent. 
Some  sat  their  horses,  with  one  leg  thrown  across  the 
pommel.  Others  stood  in  the  road,  and  a  bottle  of  white 
liquor  was  passing  in  and  out  among  them.  At  the 
distance  they  recognized  the  gray  mule,  though  even 
the  fact  that  it  carried  a  double  burden  was  not  yet 
manifest. 

"Thet  you,  Samson  ?"  called  an  old  man's  voice,  which 
was  still  very  deep  and  powerful. 

"Hello,  Unc'  Spicer !"  replied  the  boy. 

Then,  followed  a  silence  unbroken  until  the  mule 
reached  the  group,  revealing  that  besides  the  boy  an 
other  man — and  a  strange  man — had  joined  their 
number. 

"Evenin',  stranger,"  they  greeted  him,  gravely ;  then 
again  they  fell  silent,  and  in  their  silence  was  evident 
constraint. 

"This  hyar  man's  a  furriner,"  announced  Samson, 
briefly.  "He  fell  offen  a  rock,  an*  got  hurt.  I  'lowed 
I'd  fotch  him  home  ter  stay  all  night." 

The  elderly  man  who  had  hailed  the  boy  nodded,  but 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       25 

with  an  evident  annoyance.  It  seemed  that  to  him  the 
others  deferred  as  to  a  commanding  officer.  The  cor 
tege  remounted  and  rode  slowly  toward  the  house.  At 
last,  the  elderly  man  came  alongside  the  mule,  and 
inquired : 

"Samson,  where  was  ye  last  night?" 

"Thet's  my  business." 

"Mebbe  hit  hain't."  The  old  mountaineer  spoke  with 
no  resentment,  but  deep  gravity.  "We've  been  power 
ful  oneasy  erbout  ye.  Hev  ye  heered  the  news  ?" 

"What  news?"  The  boy  put  the  question  non- 
committally. 

"Jesse  Purvy  was  shot  soon  this  morning." 

The  boy  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"The  mail-rider  done  told  hit.  .  .  .  Somebody  shot 
five  shoots  from  the  laurel.  .  .  .  Purvy  hain't  died 
yit.  .  .  .  Some  says  as  how  his  folks  has  sent  ter 
Lexington  fer  bloodhounds." 

The  boy's  eyes  began  to  smolder  hatefully. 

"I  reckon,"  he  spoke  slowly,  "he  didn't  git  shot  none 
too  soon." 

"Samson!"  The  old  man's  voice  had  the  ring  of 
determined  authority.  "When  I  dies,  ye'll  be  the  head 
of  the  Souths,  but  so  long  es  I'm  a-runnin'  this  hyar 
fam'ly,  I  keeps  my  word  ter  friend  an'  foe  alike.  I 
reckon  Jesse  Purvy  knows  who  got  yore  pap,  but  up 
till  now  no  South  hain't  never  busted  no  truce." 

The  boy's  voice  dropped  its  softness,  and  took  on  a 
shrill  crescendo  of  excitement  as  he  flashed  out  his 
retort. 

"Who  said  a  South  has  done  busted  the  truce  this 
time?" 


26      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Old  Spencer  South  gazed  searchingly  at  his  nephew. 

"I  hain't  a-wantin'  ter  suspicion  ye,  Samson,  but  I 
know  how  ye  feels  about  yore  pap.  I  heered  thet  Bud 
Spicer  come  by  hyar  yistiddy  plumb  full  of  liquor,  an* 
'lowed  he'd  seed  Jesse  an'  Jim  Asberry  a-talkin'  ter- 
gether  jest  afore  yore  pap  was  kilt."  He  broke  off 
abruptly,  then  added:  "Ye  went  away  from,  hyar  last 
night,  an'  didn't  git  in  twell  atter  sun-up — I  just  heered 
the  news,  an'  come  ter  look  fer  ye." 

"Air  you-all  'lowin'  thet  I  shot  them  shoots  from  the 
laurel?"  inquired  Samson,  quietly. 

"Ef  we-all  hain't  'lowin'  hit,  Samson,  we're  plumb 
shore  thet  Jesse  Purvy's  folks  will  'low  hit.  They're 
jest  a-holdin'  yore  life  like  a  hostage  fer  Purvy's,  any 
how.  Ef  he  dies,  they'll  try  ter  git  ye." 

The  boy  flashed  a  challenge  about  the  group,  which 
was  now  drawing  rein  at  Spicer  South's  yard  fence. 
His  eyes  were  sullen,  but  he  made  no  answer. 

One  of  the  men  who  had  listened  in  silence  now  spoke: 

"In  the  fust  place,  Samson,  we  hain't  a-sayin*  ye  done 
hit.  In  the  nex'  place,  ef  ye  did  do  hit,  we  hain't 
a-blamin'  ye — much.  But  I  reckon  them  dawgs  don't 
lie,  an',  ef  they  trails  in  hyar,  ye'll  need  us.  Thet's  why 
we've  done  come." 

The  boy  slipped  down  from  his  mule,  and  helped  Les- 
cott  to  dismount.  He  deliberately  unloaded  the  saddle 
bags  and  kit,  and  laid  them  on  the  top  step  of  the  stile, 
and,  while  he  held  his  peace,  neither  denying  nor  affirm 
ing,  his  kinsmen  sat  their  horses  and  waited. 

Even  to  Lescott,  it  was  palpable  that  some  of  them 
believed  the  young  heir  to  clan  leadership  responsible 
for  the  shooting  of  Jesse  Purvy,  and  that  others  believed 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       27 

Kim  innocent,  yet  none  the  less  in  danger  of  the  enemy's 
vengeance.  But,  regardless  of  divided  opinion,  all  were 
alike  ready  to  stand  at  his  back,  and  all  alike  awaited 
his  final  utterance. 

Then,  in  the  thickening  gloom,  Samson  turned  at  the 
foot  of  the  stile,  and  faced  the  gathering.  He  stood 
rigid,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  deep  passion.  His  hands, 
hanging  at  the  seams  of  his  jeans  breeches,  clenched,  and 
his  voice  came  in  a  slow  utterance  through  which 
throbbed  the  tensity  of  a  soul-absorbing  bitterness. 

"I  knowed  all  'bout  Jesse  Purvy's  bein'  shot.  .  .  . 
When  my  pap  lay  a-dyin'  over  thar  at  his  house,  I  was 
a  little  shaver  ten  years  old  .  .  .  Jesse  Purvy  hired 
somebody  ter  kill  him  .  .  .  an'  I  promised  my  pap 
that  I'd  find  out  who  thet  man  was,  an'  thet  I'd  git  'em 
both — some  day.  So  help  me,  God  Almighty,  I'm  a-goin' 
ter  git  'em  both — some  day!"  The  boy  paused  and 
lifted  one  hand  as  though  taking  an  oath. 

"I'm  a-tellin'  you-all  the  truth.  .  .  .  But  I  didn't 
shoot  them  shoots  this  mornin5.  I  hain't  no  truce-buster. 
I  gives  ye  my  hand  on  hit.  .  .  .  Ef  them  dawgs 
comes  hyar,  they'll  find  me  hyar,  an'  ef  they  hain't  liars> 
they'll  go  right  on  by  hyar.  I  don't  'low  ter  run  away, 
an'  I  don't  'low  ter  hide  out.  I'm  agoin*  ter  stay  right 
hyar.  Thet's  all  I've  got  ter  say  ter  ye." 

For  a  moment,  there  was  no  reply.  Then,  the  older 
man  nodded  with  a  gesture  of  relieved  anxiety. 

"Thet's  all  we  wants  ter  know,  Samson,"  he  said 
slowly.  "Light,  men,  an'  come  in." 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  days  when  the  Indian  held  the  Dark  and  Bloody 
Grounds  a  pioneer,  felling  oak  and  poplar  logs  for 
the  home  he  meant  to  establish  on  the  banks  of  a 
purling  water-course,  let  his  axe  slip,  and  the  cutting 
edge  gashed  his  ankle.  Since  to  the  discoverer  belongs 
the  christening,  that  water-course  became  Cripple-shin, 
and  so  it  is  to-day  set  down  on  atlas  pages.  A  few  miles 
away,  as  the  crow  flies,  but  many  weary  leagues  as 
a  man  must  travel,  a  brother  settler,  racked  with  rheu 
matism,  gave  to  his  creek  the  name  of  Misery.  The 
two  pioneers  had  come  together  from  Virginia,  as  their 
ancestors  had  come  before  them  from  Scotland.  To 
gether,  they  had  found  one  of  the  two  gaps  through 
the  mountain  wall,  which  for  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
has  no  other  passable  rift.  Together,  and  as  comrades, 
they  had  made  their  homes,  and  founded  their  race. 
What  original  grievance  had  sprung  up  between  their 
descendants  none  of  the  present  generation  knew — per 
haps  it  was  a  farm  line  or  disputed  title  to  a  pig.  The 
primary  incident  was  lost  in  the  limbo  of  the  past ;  but 
for  fifty  years,  with  occasional  intervals  of  truce,  lives 
had  been  snuffed  out  in  the  fiercely  burning  hate  of  these 
men  whose  ancestors  had  been  comrades. 

Old  Spicer  South  and  his  nephew  Samson  were  the 
direct  lineal  descendants  of  the  namer  of  Misery.  Their 
kinsmen  dwelt  about  them:  the  Souths,  the  Jaspers, 

28 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       29 

the  Spicers,  the  Wileys,  the  Millers  and  McCagers. 
Other  families,  related  only  by  marriage  and  close  asso 
ciation,  were,  in  feud  alignment,  none  the  less  "Souths." 
And  over  beyond  the  ridge,  where  the  springs  and  brooks 
flowed  the  other  way  to  feed  Crippleshin,  dwelt  the  Holl- 
mans,  the  Purvies,  the  Asberries,  the  Hollises  and  the 
Daltons — men  equally  strong  in  their  vindictive  fealty  to 
the  code  of  the  vendetta. 

By  mountain  standards,  old  Spicer  South  was  rich. 
His  lands  had  been  claimed  when  tracts  could  be  had  for 
the  taking,  and,  though  he  had  to  make  his  cross  mark 
when  there  was  a,  contract  to  be  signed,  his  instinctive 
mind  was  shrewd  and  far  seeing.  The  tinkle  of  his 
cow-bells  was  heard  for  a  long  distance  along  the  creek 
bottoms.  His  hillside  fields  were  the  richest  and  his 
coves  the  most  fertile  in  that  country.  His  house  had 
several  rooms,  and,  except  for  those  who  hated  him  and 
whom  he  hated,  he  commanded  the  respect  of  his  fel 
lows.  Some  day,  when  a  railroad  should  burrow  througk 
his  section,  bringing  the  development  of  coal  and  timber 
at  the  head  of  the  rails,  a  sleeping  fortune  would  yawn 
and  awake  to  enrich  him.  There  were  black  outcrop- 
pings  along  the  cliffs,  which  he  knew  ran  deep  in  veins 
of  bituminous  wealth.  But  to  that  time  he  looked  with 
foreboding,  for  he  had  been  raised  to  the  standards  of  . 
his  forefathers,  and  saw  in  the  coming  of  a  new  regime  * 
a  curtailment  of  personal  liberty.  For  new-fangled 
ideas  he  held  only  the  aversion  of  deep-rooted  prejudice. 
He  hoped  that  he  might  live  out  his  days,  and  pass  before 
the  foreigner  held  his  land,  and  the  Law  became  a  power 
stronger  than  the  individual  or  the  clan.  The  Law  was 
his  enemy,  because  it  said  to  him,  "Thou  shalt  not," 


when  he  sought  to  take  the  yellow  corn  which  bruising 
labor  had  coaxed  from  scattered  rock-strewn  fields  to 
his  own  mash-vat  and  still  It  meant,  also,  a  tyrannous 
power  usually  seized  and  administered  by  enemies,  which 
undertook  to  forbid  the  personal  settlement  of  personal 
quarrels.  But  his  eyes,  which  could  not  read  print,  could 
read  the  signs  of  the  times  He  foresaw  the  inevitable 
coming  of  that  day.  Already,  he  had  given  up  the 
worm  and  mash-vat,  and  no  longer  sought  to  make  or 
sell  illicit  liquor.  That  was  a  concession  to  the  Federal 
power,  which  could  no  longer  be  successfully  fought. 
State  power  was  still  largely  a  weapon  in  factional 
hands,  and  in  his  country  the  Hollmans  were  the  office 
holders.  To  the  Hollmans,  he  could  make  no  concessions. 
In  Samson,  born  to  be  the  fighting  man,  reared  to  be  the 
fighting  man,  equipped  by  nature  with  deep  hatreds 
and  tigerish  courage,  there  had  cropped  out  from  time 
to  time  the  restless  spirit  of  the  philosopher  and  a 
hunger  for  knowledge.  That  was  a  matter  in  which 
the  old  man  found  his  bitterest  and  most  secret 
apprehension. 

It  was  at  this  house  that  George  Lescott,  distin 
guished  landscape  painter  of  New  York  and  the  world- 
at-large,  arrived  in  the  twilight.  His  first  impression 
was  received  in  shadowy  evening  mists  that  gave  a  touch 
of  the  weird.  The  sweep  of  the  stone-guarded  well  rose 
in  a  yard  tramped  bare  of  grass.  The  house  itself,  a 
rambling  structure  of  logs,  with  additions  of  undressed 
lumber,  was  without  lights.  The  cabin,  which  had  been 
the  pioneer  nucleus,  still  stood  windowless  and  with  mud- 
daubed  chimney  at  the  center.  About  it  rose  a  number 


of  tall  poles  surmounted  by  bird-boxes,  and  at  its  back 
loomed  the  great  hump  of  the  mountain. 

Whatever  enemy  might  have  to  be  met  to-morrow,  old 
Spicer  South  recognized  as  a  more  immediate  call  upon 
his  attention  the  wounded  guest  of  to-day.     One  of  the 
kinsmen  proved  to  have  a  rude  working  knowledge  of ( 
bone-setting,  and  before  the  half -hour  had  passed,  Les-  . 
cott's  wrist  was  in  a  splint,  and  his  injuries  as  well 
tended  as  possible,  which  proved  to  be  quite  well  enough. 

By  that  time,  Sally's  voice  was  heard  shouting  from 
the  stile,  and  Sally  herself  appeared  with  the  announce 
ment  that  she  had  found  and  brought  in  the  lost  mule. 

As  Lescott  looked  at  her,  standing  slight  and  willowy 
in  the  thickening  darkness,  among  the  big-boned  and 
slouching  figures  of  the  clansmen,  she  seemed  to  shrink 
from  the  stature  of  a  woman  into  that  of  a  child,  and, 
as  she  felt  his  eyes  on  her,  she  timidly  slipped  farther 
back  into  the  shadowy  door  of  the  cabin,  and  dropped 
down  on  the  sill,  where,  with  her  hands  clasped  about 
her  knees,  she  gazed  curiously  at  himself.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  sat  immovable  with  her  thick  hair  falling 
over  her  shoulders.  The  painter  recognized  that  even  . 
the  interest  in  him  as  a  new  type  could  not  for  long' 
keep  her  eyes  from  being  drawn  to  the  face  of  Samson, 
where  they  lingered,  and  in  that  magnetism  he  read,  not 
the  child,  but  the  woman. 

Samson  was  plainly  restive  from  the  moment  of  her 
arrival,  and,  when  a  monosyllabic  comment  from  the 
taciturn  group  threatened  to  reveal  to  the  girl  the 
threatened  outbreak  of  the  feud,  he  went  over  to  her, 
and  inquired: 

"Sally,  air  ye  skeered  ter  go  home  by  yeself  ?" 


S£       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

As  she  met  the  boy's  eyes,  it  was  clear  that  her  own 
held  neither  nervousness  nor  fear,  and  yet  there  was 
something  else  in  them — the  glint  of  invitation.  She 
rose  from  her  seat. 

"I  hain't  ter  say  skeered,"  she  told  him,  "but,  ef  ye 
wants  ter  walk  as  fur  as  the  stile,  I  hain't  a-keerin'." 

The  youth  rose,  and,  taking  his  hat  and  rifle,  followed 
her. 

Lescott  was  happily  gifted  with  the  power  of  facile 
adaptation,  and  he  unobtrusively  bent  his  efforts  toward 
convincing  his  new  acquaintances  that,  although  he  was 
alien  to  their  ways,  he  was  sympathetic  and  to  be 
trusted.  Once  that  assurance  was  given,  the  family  talk 
went  on  much  as  though  he  had  been  absent,  and,  as 
he  sat  with  open  ears,  he  learned  the  rudiments  of  the 
conditions  that  had  brought  the  kinsmen  together  in 
Samson's  defense. 

At  last,  Spicer  South's  sister,  a  woman  who  looked 
older  than  himself,  though  she  was  really  younger, 
appeared,  smoking  a  clay  pipe,  which  she  waved  toward 
the  kitchen. 

"You  men  kin  come  in  an'  eat,"  she  announced;  and 
the  mountaineers,  knocking  the  ashes  from  their  pipes, 
trailed  into  the  kitchen. 

The  place  was  lit  by  the  fire  in  a  cavernous  hearth 
where  the  cooking  was  still  going  forward  with  skillet 
and  crane.  The  food,  coarse  and  greasy,  but  not 
unwholesome,  was  set  on  a  long  table  covered  with  oil 
cloth.  The  roughly  clad  men  sat  down  with  a  scraping 
of  chair  legs,  and  attacked  their  provender  in  business 
like  silence. 

The  corners  of  the  room  fell  into  obscurity.    Shadows 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       33 

wavered  against  the  sooty  rafters,  and,  before  the  meal 
ended,  Samson  returned  and  dropped  without  comment 
into  his  chair.  Afterward,  the  men  trooped  taciturnly 
out  again,  and  resumed  their  pipes. 

A  whippoorwill  sent  his  mournful  cry  across  the  tree- 
tops,  and  was  answered.  Frogs  added  the  booming  of 
their  tireless  throats.  A  young  moon  slipped  across  an 
eastern  mountain,  and  livened  the  creek  into  a  soft  shim 
mer  wherein  long  shadows  quavered.  The  more  distant 
line  of  mountains  showed  in  a  mist  of  silver,  and  the 
nearer  heights  in  blue-gray  silhouette.  A  wizardry  of 
night  and  softness  settled  like  a  benediction,  and  from 
the  dark  door  of  the  house  stole  the  quaint  folklore 
cadence  of  a  rudely  thrummed  banjo.  Lescott  strolled 
over  to  the  stile  with  every  artist  instinct  stirred.  This 
nocturne  of  silver  and  gray  and  blue  at  once  soothed 
and  intoxicated  his  imagination.  His  fingers  were  itch 
ing  for  a  brush. 

Then,  he  heard  a  movement  at  his  shoulder,  and, 
turning,  saw  the  boy  Samson  with  the  moonlight  in  his 
eyes,  and,  besides  the  moonlight,  that  sparkle  which  is 
the  essence  of  the  dreamer's  vision.  Once  more,  their 
glances  met  and  flashed  a  countersign. 

"Hit  hain't  got  many  colors  in  hit,"  said  the  boy, 
slowly,  indicating  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand  the  sym 
phony  about  them,  "but  somehow  what  there  is  is  jest 
about  the  right  ones.  Hit  whispers  ter  a  feller,  the 
same  as  a  mammy  whispers  ter  her  baby."  He  paused, 
then  eagerly  asked :  "Stranger,  kin  you  look  at  the  sky 
an'  the  mountings  an'  hear  'em  singin' — with  yore  eyes  ?" 

The  painter  felt  a  thrill  of  astonishment.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  the  boy,  whose  rude  descriptives  reflected 


such  poetry  of  feeling,  could  be  one  with  the  savage 
young  animal  who  had,  two  hours  before,  raised  his 
hand  heavenward,  and  reiterated  his  oath  to  do  murder 
in  payment  of  murder. 

"Yes,"  was  his  slow  reply,  "every  painter  must  do 
{that.     Music  and  color  are  two  expressions  of  the  same 
thing — and  the  thing  is  Beauty." 

The  mountain  boy  made  no  reply,  but  his  eyes  dwelt 
on  the  quivering  shadows  in  the  water;  and  Lescott 
asked  cautiously,  fearing  to  wake  him  from  the  dreamer 
to  the  savage: 

"So  you  are  interested  in  skies  and  hills  and  their 
beauties,  too,  are  you?" 

Samson's  laugh  was  half-ashamed,  half-defiant. 

"Sometimes,  stranger,"  he  said,  "I  'lows  that  I  hain't 
much  interested  in  nothin'  else." 

That  there  dwelt  in  the  lad  something  which  leaped 
in  response  to  the  clarion  call  of  beauty,  Lescott  had 
read  in  that  momentary  give  and  take  of  their  eyes  down 
there  in  the  hollow  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  But,  since 
then,  the  painter  had  seen  the  other  and  sterner  side, 
and  once  more  he  was  puzzled  and  astonished.  Now,  he 
stood  anxiously  hoping  that  the  boy  would  permit  him 
self  further  expression,  yet  afraid  to  prompt,  lest  direct 
questions  bring  a  withdrawal  again  into  the  shell  of 
taciturnity.  After  a  few  moments  of  silence,  he  slowly 
turned  his  head,  and  glanced  at  his  companion,  to  find 
him  standing  rigidly  with  his  elbows  resting  on  the  top 
palings  of  the  fence.  He  had  thrown  his  rough  hat  to 
the  ground,  and  his  face  in  the  pale  moonlight  was 
raised.  His  eyes  under  the  black  mane  of  hair  were 
glowing  deeply  with  a  fire  of  something  like  exaltation, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       35 

as  he  gazed  away.  It  was  the  expression  of  one  who 
sees  things  hidden  to  the  generality ;  such  a  light  as 
burns  in  the  eyes  of  artists  and  prophets  and  fanatics, 
which,  to  the  uncomprehending,  seems  almost  a  fire  of 
madness.  Samson  must  have  felt  Lescott's  scrutiny, 
for  he  turned  with  a  half-passionate  gesture  and 
clenched  fists.  His  face,  as  he  met  the  glance  of  the 
foreigner  was  sullen,  and  then,  as  though  in  recognition 
of  a  brother-spirit,  his  expression  softened,  and  slowly 
he  began  to  speak. 

"These  folks  'round  hyar  sometimes  'lows  I  hain't 
much  better'n  an  id  jit  because — because  I  feels  that- 
away.  Even  Sally" —  he  caught  himself,  then  went 
on  doggedly — "even  Sally  kain't  see  how  a  man  kin  keer 
about  things  like  skies  and  the  color  of  the  hills,  ner 
the  way  ther  sunset  splashes  the  sky  clean  acrost  its 
aidge,  ner  how  the  sunrise  comes  outen  the  dark  like  a 
gal  a-blushin'.  They  'lows  thet  a  man  had  ought  ter  be 
studyin'  'bout  other  things." 

He  paused,  and  folded  his  arms,  and  his  strong 
fingers  grasped  his  tensed  biceps  until  the  knuckles 
stood  out,  as  he  went  on: 

"I  reckon  they  hain't  none  of  them  thet  kin  hate 
harder'n  me.  I  reckon  they  hain't  none  of  'em  thet  is 
more  plumb  willin'  ter  fight  them  thet's  rightful  enemies, 
an'  yit  hit  'pears  ter  me  as  thet  hain't  no  reason  why 
a  man  kain't  feel  somethin'  singin'  inside  him  when 
Almighty  God  builds  hills  like  them" — he  swept  both 
hands  out  in  a  wide  circle — "an'  makes  'em  green  in 
summer,  an'  lets  'em  blaze  in  red  an'  yaller  in  ther  fall, 
an'  hangs  blue  skies  over  'em  an'  makes  ther  sun  shine, 
an'  at  night  sprinkles  'em  with  stars  an'  a  moon  like 


thet!"  Again,  he  paused,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  ask 
the  corroboration  which  they  read  in  the  expression  and 
nod  of  the  stranger  from  the  mysterious  outside  world. 
Then,  Samson  South  spread  his  hands  in  a  swift  gesture 
of  protest,  and  his  voice  hardened  in  timbre  as  he 
went  on : 

"But  these  folks  hyarabouts  kain't  understand  thet. 
All  they  sees  in  the  laurel  on  the  hillside,  an'  the  big 
gray  rocks  an'  the  green  trees,  is  breshwood  an'  timber 
thet  may  be  hidin'  their  enemies,  or  places  ter  hide  out 
an*  lay-way  some  other  feller.  I  hain't  never  seen  no 
other  country.  I  don't  know  whether  all  places  is  like 
these  hyar  mountings  er  not,  but  I  knows  thet  the  Lord 
didn't  'low  fer  men  ter  live  blind,  not  seein'  no  beauty 
in  nothin' ;  ner  not  feelin*  nothin'  but  hate  an'  meanness 
• — ner  studyin'  'bout  nothin'  but  deviltry.  There  hain't 
no  better  folks  nowhar  then  my  folks,  an'  thar  hain't 
no  meaner  folks  nowhar  then  them  damned  Hollmans, 
but  thar's  times  when  hit  'pears  ter  me  thet  the  Lord 
Almighty  hain't  plumb  tickled  ter  death  with  ther  way 
things  goes  hyar  along  these  creeks  and  coves." 

Samson  paused,  and  suddenly  the  glow  died  out  of  his 
eyes.  His  features  instantly  reshaped  themselves  into 
their  customary  mold  of  stoical  hardness.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  his  outburst  had  been  a  long  one  and 
strangely  out  of  keeping  with  his  usual  taciturnity,  and 
he  wondered  what  this  stranger  would  think  of  him. 

The  stranger  was  marveling.  He  was  seeing  in  the 
crude  lad  at  his  side  warring  elements  that  might  build 
into  a  unique  and  strangely  interesting  edifice  of  char 
acter,  and  his  own  speech  as  he  talked  there  by  the 
palings  of  the  fence  in  the  moonlight  was  swiftly  estab- 


lishing  the  foundations  of  a  comradeship  between  the 
two. 

"Thar's  something  mighty  quare  about  ye,  stran 
ger,"  said  the  boy  at  last,  half-shyly.  "I  been  wonderin' 
why  I've  talked  ter  ye  like  this.  I  hain't  never 
talked  that-away  with  no  other  man.  Ye  jest  seemed  ter 
,kind  of  compel  me  ter  do  hit.  When  I  says  things  like 
thet  ter  Sally,  she  gits  skeered  of  me  like  ef  I  was  plumb 
crazy,  an',  ef  I  talked  that-away  to  the  menfolks  'round 
hyar  they'd  be  sartain  I  was  an  id  jit." 

"That,"  said  Lescott,  gravely,  "is  because  they  don't 
understand.  I  do." 

"I  kin  lay  awake  nights,"  said  Samson,  "an'  see  them 
hills  and  mists  an'  colors  the  same  es  ef  they  was  thar 
in  front  of  my  eyes — an'  I  kin  seem  ter  hear  'em  as 
well  as  see  'em." 

The  painter  nodded,  and  his  voice  fell  into  low 
quotation : 

"  'The  scarlet  of  the  maple  can  shake  me  like  the  cry 
"  'Of  bugles  going  by.'  " 

The  boy's  eyes  deepened.  To  Lescott,  the  thought  of 
bugles  conjured  up  a  dozen  pictures  of  marching 
jsoldiery  under  a  dozen  flags.  To  Samson  South,  it  sug 
gested  only  one:  militia  guarding  a  battered  court 
house,  but  to  both  the  simile  brought  a  stirring  of 
pulses. 

Even  in  June,  the  night  mists  bring  a  touch  of  chill 
to  the  mountains,  and  the  clansmen  shortly  carried  their 
chairs  indoors.  The  old  woman  fetched  a  pan  of  red 
coals  from  the  kitchen,  and  kindled  the  logs  on  the  deep 


38      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

hearth.  There  was  no  other  light,  and,  until  the  flames, 
climbed  to  roaring  volume,  spreading  their  zone  of  yel 
low  brightness,  only  the  circle  about  the  fireplace 
emerged  from  the  sooty  shadows.  In  the  four  dark 
corners  of  the  room  were  four  large  beds,  vaguely  seen, 
and  from  one  of  them  still  came  the  haunting  monotony 
of  the  banjo. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  silence,  rose  Samson's  voice 
keyed  to  a  stubborn  note,  as  though  anticipating  and 
challenging  contradiction. 

"Times  is  changin'  mighty  fast.  A  feller  thet  grows 
up  plumb  ign'rant  ain't  a-goin'  ter  have  much  show." 

Old  Spicer  South  drew  a  contemplative  puff  at  his 
pipe. 

"Ye  went  ter  school  twell  ye  was  ten  year  old,  Samson. 
Thet's  a  heap  more  schoolin'  then  I  ever  had,  an*  I've 
done  got  along  all  right." 

"Ef  my  pap  had  lived" —  the  boy's  voice  was  almost 
accusing — "I'd  hev  larned  more  then  jest  ter  read  an? 
write  en  figger  a  little." 

"I  hain't  got  no  use  fer  these  newfangled  notions." 
Spicer  spoke  with  careful  curbing  of  his  impatience. 
"Yore  pap  stood  out  fer  eddycation.  He  had  ideas 
about  law  an'  all  that,  an'  he  talked  'em.  He  got  shot 
ter  death.  Yore  Uncle  John  South  went  down  below, 
an'  got  ter  be  a  lawyer.  He  come  home  hyar,  an'  onder- 
took  ter  penitentiary  Jesse  Purvy,  when  Jesse  was  High 
Sheriff.  I  reckon  ye  knows  what  happened  ter  him." 

Samson  said  nothing  and  the  older  man  went  on: 

"They  aimed  ter  run  him  outen  the  mountings." 

"They  didn't  run  him  none,"  blazed  the  boy.  "He 
didn't  never  leave  the  mountings." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       39 

"No."  The  family  head  spoke  with  the  force  of  a 
logical  climax.  "He'd  done  rented  a  house  down  below 
though,  an'  was  a-fixin'  ter  move.  He  staid  one  day  too 
late.  Jesse  Purvy  hired  him  shot." 

"What  of  hit?"  demanded  Samson. 

"Yore  cousin,  Bud  Spicer,  was  eddicated.  He  'lowed 
in  public  thet  Micah  Hollman  an'  Jesse  Purvy  was 
runnin'  a  murder  partnership.  Somebody  called  him  ter 
the  door  of  his  house  in  the  night-time  ter  borry  a 
lantern — an'  shot  him  ter  death." 

"What  of  hit?" 

"Thar's  jist  this  much  of  hit.  Hit  don't  seem  ter 
pay  the  South  family  ter  go  a-runnin'  attar  newfangled 
idees.  They  gets  too  much  notion  of  goin'  ter  law — 
an'  thet's  plumb  fatal.  Ye'd  better  stay  where  ye 
b'longs,  Samson,  an'  let  good  enough  be." 

"Why  hain't  ye  done  told  about  all  the  rest  of  the 
Souths  thet  didn't  hev  no  eddication,"  suggested  the 
youngest  South,  "thet  got  killed  off  jest  as  quick  as 
them  as  had  hit?" 


CHAPTER  V 

WHILE  Spicer  South  and  his  cousins  had  been 
sustaining  themselves  or  building  up  compe 
tences  by  tilling  their  soil,  the  leaders  of  the 
other  faction  were  basing  larger  fortunes  on  the  profits 
of  merchandise  and  trade.  So,  although  Spicer  South 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  his  chief  enemy,  Micah 
Hollman,  was  to  outward  seeming  an  urbane  and  fairly 
,equipped  man  of  affairs.  Judged  by  their  heads,  the 
clansmen  were  rougher  and  more  illiterate  on  Misery, 
and  in  closer  touch  with  civilization  on  Crippleshin.  A 
deeper  scrutiny  showed  this  seeming  to  be  one  of  the 
strange  anomalies  of  the  mountains. 

Micah  Hollman  had  established  himself  at  Hixon,  that 
shack  town  which  had  passed  of  late  years  from  feudal 
county  seat  to  the  section's  one  point  of  contact  with 
the  outside  world ;  a  town  where  the  ancient  and  modern 
orders  brushed  shoulders ;  where  the  new  was  tolerated, 
but  dared  not  become  aggressive.  Directly  across  the 
street  from  the  court-house  stood  an  ample  frame  build 
ing,  on  whose  side  wall  was  emblazoned  the  legend: 
"Hollman's  Mammoth  Department  Store."  That  was 
the  secret  stronghold  of  Hollman  power.  He  had  always 
spoken  deploringly  of  that  spirit  of  lawlessness  which 
had  given  the  mountains  a  bad  name.  He  himself,  he 
declared,  believed  that  the  best  assets  of  any  community 
were  tenets  of  peace  and  brotherhood.  Any  mountain 

40 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       41 

man  or  foreigner  who  came  to  town  was  sure  of  a  wel 
come  from  Judge  Micah  Hollman,  who  added  to  his 
title  of  storekeeper  that  of  magistrate. 

As  the  years  went  on,  the  proprietor  of  the  "Mam 
moth  Department  Store"  found  that  he  had  money  to 
lend  and,  as  a  natural  sequence,  mortgages  stored  away 
in  his  strong  box.  To  the  cry  of  distress,  he  turned  a 
sympathetic  ear.  His  infectious  smile  and  suave  man 
ner  won  him  fame  as  "the  best-hearted  man  in  the  moun 
tains."  Steadily  and  unostentatiously,  his  fortune 
fattened. 

When  the  railroad  came  to  Hixon,  it  found  in  Judge 
Hollman  a  "public-spirited  citizen."  Incidentally,  the 
timber  that  it  hauled  and  the  coal  that  its  flat  cars 
carried  down  to  the  Bluegrass  went  largely  to  his  con 
signees.  He  had  so  astutely  anticipated  coming  events 
that,  when  the  first  scouts  of  capital  sought  options, 
they  found  themselves  constantly  referred  to  Judge 
Hollman.  No  wheel,  it  seemed,  could  turn  without  his 
nod.  It  was  natural  that  the  genial  storekeeper  should 
become  the  big  man  of  the  community  and  inevitable 
that  the  one  big  man  should  become  the  dictator.  His 
inherited  place  as  leader  of  the  Hollmans  in  the  feud  he 
had  seemingly  passed  on  as  an  obsolete  prerogative. 

Yet,  in  business  matters,  he  was  found  to  drive  a  hard 
bargain,  and  men  came  to  regard  it  the  part  of  good 
policy  to  meet  rather  than  combat  his  requirements. 
It  was  essential  to  his  purposes  that  the  officers  of  the 
law  in  his  county  should  be  in  sympathy  with  him. 
Sympathy  soon  became  abject  subservience.  When  a 
South  had  opposed  Jesse  Purvy  in  the  primary  as  can 
didate  for  High  Sheriff,  he  was  found  one  day  lying  on 


42       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

his  face  with  a  bullet-riddled  body.  It  may  have  been 
a  coincidence  which  pointed  to  Jim  Asberry,  the  judge's 
nephew,  as  the  assassin.  At  all  events,  the  judge's 
nephew  was  a  poor  boy,  and  a  charitable  Grand  Jury 
declined  to  indict  him. 

In  the  course  of  five  years,  several  South  adherents, 
who  had  crossed  Hollman's  path,  became  victims  of  the 
laurel  ambuscade.  The  theory  of  coincidence  was 
strained.  Slowly,  the  rumor  grew  and  persistently 
spread,  though  no  man  would  admit  having  fathered 
it,  that  before  each  of  these  executions  star-chamber 
conferences  had  been  held  in  the  rooms  above  Micah 
Hollman's  "Mammoth  Department  Store."  It  was  said 
that  these  exclusive  sessions  were  attended  by  Judge 
Hollman,  Sheriff  Purvy  and  certain  other  gentlemen 
selected  by  reason  of  their  marksmanship.  When  one 
of  these  victims  fell,  John  South  had  just  returned  from 
a  law  school  "down  below,"  wearing  "fotched-on"  cloth 
ing  and  thinking  "fotched-on"  thoughts.  He  had 
amazed  the  community  by  demanding  the  right  to  assist 
in  probing  and  prosecuting  the  affair.  He  had  then 
shocked  the  community  into  complete  paralysis  by  re 
questing  the  Grand  Jury  to  indict  not  alone  the  alleged 
assassin,  but  also  his  employers,  whom  he  named  as 
Judge  Hollman  and  Sheriff  Purvy.  Then,  he,  too,  fell 
under  a  bolt  from  the  laurel. 

That  was  the  first  public  accusation  against  the 
bland  capitalist,  and  it  carried  its  own  prompt  warning 
against  repetition.  The  Judge's  High  Sheriff  and  chief 
ally  retired  from  office,  and  went  abroad  only  with  a 
bodyguard.  Jesse  Purvy  had  built  his  store  at  a  cross 
roads  twenty-five  miles  from  the  railroad.  Like  Holl- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       43 

man,  he  had  won  a  reputation  for  open-handed  charity, 
and  was  liked — and  hated.  His  friends  were  legion. 
His  enemies  were  so  numerous  that  he  apprehended  vio 
lence  not  only  from  the  Souths,  but  also  from  others 
who  nursed  grudges  in  no  way  related  to  the  line  of 
feud  cleavage.  The  Hollman-Purvy  combination  had 
retained  enough  of  its  old  power  to  escape  the  law's 
retribution  and  to  hold  its  dictatorship,  but  the  efforts 
of  John  South  had  not  been  altogether  bootless.  He 
had  ripped  away  two  masks,  and  their  erstwhile  wearers 
could  no  longer  hold  their  old  semblance  of  law-abiding 
philanthropists.  Jesse  Purvy's  home  was  the  show 
place  of  the  country  side.  To  the  traveler's  eye,  which 
had  grown  accustomed  to  hovel  life  and  squalor,  it 
offered  a  reminder  of  the  richer  Bluegrass.  Its  walls 
were  weather-boarded  and  painted,  and  its  roof  two 
stories  high.  Commodious  verandahs  looked  out  over 
pleasant  orchards,  and  in  the  same  enclosure  stood  the 
two  frame  buildings  of  his  store — for  he,  too,  combined 
merchandise  with  baronial  powers.  But  back  of  the 
place  rose  the  mountainside,  on  which  Purvy  never 
( looked  without  dread.  Twice,  its  impenetrable  thickets 
had  spat  at  him.  Twice,  he  had  recovered  from  wounds 
that  would  have  taken  a  less-charmed  life.  And  in 
grisly  reminder  of  the  terror  which  clouded  the  peace 
of  his  days  stood  the  eight-foot  log  stockade  at  the 
rear  of  the  place  which  the  proprietor  had  built  to 
shield  his  daily  journeys  between  house  and  store.  But 
Jesse  Purvy  was  not  deluded  by  his  escapes.  He  knew 
that  he  was  "marked  down."  For  years,  he  had  seen 
men  die  by  his  own  plotting,  and  he  himself  must  in 
the  end  follow  by  a  similar  road.  Rumor  had  it  that 


44       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

he  wore  a  shirt  of  mail,  certain  it  is  that  he  walked  in 
the  expectancy  of  death. 

"Why  don't  you  leave  the  mountains?"  strangers 
had  asked ;  and  to  each  of  them  Purvy  had  replied  with 
a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  a  short  laugh:  "This  is 
where  I  belong."  , 

But  the  years  of  strain  were  telling  on  Jesse  Purvy. ! 
The  robust,  full-blooded  face  was  showing  deep  lines; 
his  flesh  was  growing  flaccid;  his  glance  tinged  with 
quick  apprehension.  He  told  his  intimates  that  he 
realized  "they'd  get  him,"  yet  he  sought  to  prolong  his 
term  of  escape. 

The  creek  purled  peacefully  by  the  stile;  the  apple 
and  peach  trees  blossomed  and  bore  fruit  at  their 
appointed  time,  but  the  householder,  when  he  walked 
between  his  back  door  and  the  back  door  of  the  store, 
hugged  his  stockade,  and  hurried  his  steps. 

Yesterday  morning,  Jesse  Purvy  had  risen  early  as 
usual,  and,  after  a  satisfying  breakfast,  had  gone  to 
his  store  to  arrange  for  the  day's  business.  One  or  two 
of  his  henchmen,  seeming  loafers,  but  in  reality  a  body 
guard,  were  lounging  within  call.  A  married  daughter 
was  chatting  with  her  father  while  her  young  baby 
played  among  the  barrels  and  cracker  boxes. 

The  daughter  went  to  a  rear  window,  and  gazed  up 
at  the  mountain.  The  cloudless  skies  were  still  in  hiding 
behind  a  curtain  of  mist.  The  woman  was  idly  watch 
ing  the  vanishing  fog  wraiths,  and  her  father  came  over 
to  her  side.  Then,  the  baby  cried,  and  she  stepped  back. 
Purvy  himself  remained  at  the  window.  It  was  a  thing 
he  did  not  often  do.  It  left  him  exposed,  but  the  most 
cautiously  guarded  life  has  its  moments  of  relaxed 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       45 

vigilance.  He  stood  there  possibly  thirty  seconds,  then 
a  sharp  fusillade  of  clear  reports  barked  out  and  was 
shattered  by  the  hills  into  a  long  reverberation.  With 
a  hand  clasped  to  his  chest,  Purvy  turned,  walked  to 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  fell. 

The  henchmen  rushed  to  the  open  sash.  They  Ieaped4 
out,  and  plunged  up  the  mountain,  tempting  the  assas-5 
sin's  fire,  but  the  assassin  was  satisfied.  The  mountain 
was  again  as  quiet  as  it  had  been  at  dawn.  Its  impene 
trable  mask  of  green  was  blank  and  unresponsive. 
Somewhere  in  the  cool  of  the  dewy  treetops  a  squirrel 
barked.  Here  and  there,  the  birds  saluted  the  sparkle 
and  freshness  of  June.  Inside,  at  the  middle  of  the 
store,  Jesse  Purvy  shifted  his  head  against  his  daugh 
ter's  knee,  and  said,  as  one  stating  an  expected  event: 

"Well,  they've  got  me." 

An  ordinary  mountaineer  would  have  been  carried 
home  to  die  in  the  darkness  of  a  dirty  and  windowless 
shack.  The  long-suffering  star  of  Jesse  Purvy  or 
dained  otherwise.  He  might  go  under  or  he  might 
once  more  beat  his  way  back  and  out  of  the  quicksands 
of  death.  At  all  events,  he  would  fight  for  life  to 
the  last  gasp. 

Twenty  miles  away  in  the  core  of  the  wilderness, 
removed  from  a  railroad  by  a  score  of  semi-perpendic 
ular  miles,  a  fanatic  had  once  decided  to  found  a  school. 
The  fact  that  the  establishment  in  this  place  of  such 
a  school  as  his  mind  pictured  was  sheer  madness  and 
impossibility  did  not  in  the  least  deter  him.  It  was  a 
thing  that  could  not  be  done,  and  it  was  a  thing  that 
he  had  done  none  the  less. 

Now  a  faculty  of  ten  men,  like  himself  holding  de- 


46       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

grees  of  Masters  of  Dreams,  taught  such  as  cared  to 
come  such  things  as  they  cared  to  learn.  Substantial 
two-  and  three-storied  buildings  of  square-hewn  logs 
lay  grouped  in  a  sort  of  Arts  and  Crafts  village  around 
a  clean-clipped  campus.  The  Stagbone  College  prop 
erty  stretched  twenty  acres  square  at  the  foot  of  a 
hill.  The  drone  of  its  own  saw-mill  came  across  the 
valley.  In  a  book-lined  library,  wainscoted  in  natural 
woods  of  three  colors,  the  original  fanatic  often  sat 
reflecting  pleasurably  on  his  folly.  Higher  up  the 
hillside  stood  a  small,  but  model,  hospital,  with  a  mod 
ern  operating  table  and  a  case  of  surgical  instruments, 
which,  it  was  said,  the  State  could  not  surpass.  These 
things  had  been  the  gifts  of  friends  who  liked  such  a 
type  of  God-inspired  madness.  A  "fotched-on"  trained 
nurse  was  in  attendance.  From  time  to  time,  eminent 
Bluegrass  surgeons  came  to  Hixon  by  rail,  rode  twenty 
miles  on  mules,  and  held  clinics  on  the  mountainside. 

To  this  haven,  Jesse  Purvy,  the  murder  lord,  was 
borne  in  a  litter  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  his  depend 
ents.  Here,  as  his  steadfast  guardian  star  decreed,  he 
found  two  prominent  medical  visitors,  who  hurried  him 
to  the  operating  table.  Later,  he  was  removed  to  a 
white  bed,  with  the  June  sparkle  in  his  eyes,  pleasantly 
^nodulated  through  drawn  blinds,  and  the  June  rustle 
fand  bird  chorus  in  his  ears — and  his  own  thoughts  in 
his  brain. 

Conscious,  but  in  great  pain,  Purvy  beckoned  Jim 
Asberry  and  Aaron  Hollis,  his  chiefs  of  bodyguard,  to 
his  bedside,  and  waved  the  nurse  back  out  of  hearing. 

"If  I  don't  get  well,"  he  said,  feebly,  "there's  a  job 
for  you  two  boys,  I  reckon  you  know  what  it  is?" 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       47 

They  nodded,  and  Asberry  whispered  a  name : 

"Samson  South?" 

"Yes,"  Purvy  spoke  in  a  weak  whisper;  but  the  old 
vindictiveness  was  not  smothered.  "You  got  the  old 
man,  I  reckon  you  can  manage  the  cub.  If  you  don't, 
he'll  get  you  both  one  day." 

The  two  henchmen  scowled. 

"I'll  git  him  to-morrer,"  growled  Asberry.  "Thar 
hain't  no  sort  of  use  in  a-waitin'." 

"No !"  For  an  instant  Purvy's  voice  rose  out  of  its 
weakness  to  its  old  staccato  tone  of  command,  a  tone 
which  brought  obedience.  "If  I  get  well,  I  have  other 
plans.  Never  mind  what  they  are.  That's  my  business. 
If  I  don't  die,  leave  him  alone,  until  I  give  other  orders." 
He  lay  back  and  fought  for  breath.  The  nurse  came 
over  with  gentle  insistence,  ordering  quiet,  but  the  man, 
whose  violent  life  might  be  closing,  had  business  yet  to 
discuss  with  his  confidential  vassals.  Again,  he  waved 
her  back. 

"If  I  get  well,"  he  went  on,  "and  Samson  South  is 
killed  meanwhile,  I  won't  live  long  either.  It  would  be 
my  life  for  his.  Keep  close  to  him.  The  minute  you 
hear  of  my  death — get  him."  He  paused  again,  then 
supplemented,  "You  two  will  find  something  mighty  in- 
terestin'  in  my  will." 

It  was  afternon  when  Purvy  reached  the  hospital, 
and,  at  nightfall  of  the  same  day,  there  arrived  at  his 
store's  entrance,  on  stumbling,  hard-ridden  mules,  sev 
eral  men,  followed  by  two  tawny  hounds  whose  long 
ears  flapped  over  their  lean  jaws,  and  whose  eyes  were 
listless  and  tired,  but  whose  black  muzzles  wrinkled  and 
sniffed  with  that  sensitive  instinct  which  follows  the 


48       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

man-scent.  The  ex-sheriff's  family  were  instituting 
proceedings  independent  of  the  Chief's  orders.  The 
next  morning,  this  party  plunged  into  the  mountain 
tangle,  and  beat  the  cover  with  the  bloodhounds  in 
leash. 

The  two  gentle-faced  dogs  picked  their  way  between 
the  flowering  rhododendrons,  the  glistening  laurels,  the 
feathery  pine  sprouts  and  the  moss-covered  rocks. 
They  went  gingerly  and  alertly  on  ungainly,  cushioned 
feet.  Just  as  their  masters  were  despairing,  they  came 
to  a  place  directly  over  the  store,  where  a  branch  had 
been  bent  back  and  hitched  to  clear  the  outlook,  and 
where  a  boot  heel  had  crushed  the  moss.  There  one  of 
them  raised  his  nose  high  into  the  air,  opened  his  mouth, 
and  let  out  a  long,  deep-chested  bay  of  discovery. 


CHAPTER  VI 

GEORGE  LESCOTT  had  known  hospitality  of 
many  brands  and  degrees.  He  had  been  the 
lionized  celebrity  in  places  of  fashion.  He  had 
been  the  guest  of  equally  famous  brother  artists  in  the 
cities  of  two  hemispheres,  and,  since  sincere  painting 
had  been  his  pole-star,  he  had  gone  where  his  art's 
wanderlust  beckoned.  His  most  famous  canvas,  per 
haps,  was  his  "Prayer  Toward  Mecca,"  which  hangs 
in  the  Metropolitan.  It  shows,  with  a  power  that  holds 
the  observer  in  a  compelling  grip,  the  wonderful  colors 
of  a  sunset  across  the  desert.  One  seems  to  feel  the 
renewed  life  that  comes  to  the  caravan  with  the  welcome 
of  the  oasis.  One  seems  to  hear  the  grunting  of  the 
kneeling  camels  and  the  stirring  of  the  date  palms. 
The  Bedouins  have  spread  their  prayer-rugs,  and  be 
hind  them  burns  the  west.  Lescott  caught  in  that,  as 
he  had  caught  in  his  mountain  sketches,  the  broad 
spirit  of  the  thing.  To  paint  that  canvas,  he  had 
endured  days  of  racking  camel-travel  and  burning  heat 
and  thirst.  He  had  followed  the  lure  of  transitory 
beauty  to  remote  sections  of  the  world.  The  present 
trip  was  only  one  of  many  like  it,  which  had  brought 
him  into  touch  with  varying  peoples  and  distinctive 
types  of  life.  He  told  himself  that  never  had  he  f ounc! 
men  at  once  so  crude  and  so  courteous  as  these  hosts, 

49 


50       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

who,  facing  personal  perils,  had  still  time  and  willing 
ness  to  regard  his  comfort. 

They  could  not  speak  grammatically;  they  could 
hardly  offer  him  the  necessities  of  life,  yet  they  gave 
all  they  had,  with  a  touch  of  courtliness. 

In  a  fabric  soiled  and  threadbare,  one  may  sometimes 
trace  the  tarnished  design  that  erstwhile  ran  in  gold 
through  a  rich  pattern.  Lescott  could  not  but  think 
of  some  fine  old  growth  gone  to  seed  and  decay,  but  still 
bearing  at  its  crest  a  single  beautiful  blossom  while  it 
held  in  its  veins  a  poison. 

Such  a  blossom  was  Sally.  Her  scarlet  lips  and  sweet, 
grave  eyes  might  have  been  the  inheritance  gift  of  some 
remote  ancestress  whose  feet,  instead  of  being  bare  and 
brown,  had  trod  in  high-heeled,  satin  slippers.  When 
Lord  Fairfax  governed  the  Province  of  Virginia,  that 
first  Sally,  in  the  stateliness  of  panniered  brocades  and 
powdered  hair,  may  have  tripped  a  measure  to  the 
harpsichord  or  spinet.  Certain  it  is  she  trod  with  no 
more  untrammeled  grace  than  her  wild  descendant.  For 
the  nation's  most  untamed  and  untaught  fragment  is, 
after  all,  an  unamalgamated  stock  of  British  and  Scot 
tish  bronze,  which  now  and  then  strikes  back  to  its 
beginning  and  sends  forth  a  pure  peal  from  its  corroded 
bell-metal.  In  all  America  is  no  other  element  whose 
blood  is  so  purely  what  the  Nation's  was  at  birth. 

The  coming  of  the  kinsmen,  who  would  stay  until  the 
present  danger  passed,  had  filled  the  house.  The  four 
beds  in  the  cabin  proper  were  full,  and  some  slept  on 
floor  mattresses.  Lescott,  because  a  guest  and  wounded, 
was  given  a  small  room  aside.  Samson,  however,  shared 
his  quarters  in  order  to  perform  any  service  that  an 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND'S       51 

injured  man  might  require.  It  had  been  a  full  and 
unusual  day  for  the  painter,  and  its  incidents  crowded 
in  on  him  in  retrospect  and  drove  off  the  possibility  of 
sleep.  Samson,  too,  seemed  wakeful,  and  in  the  isolation 
of  the  dark  room  the  two  men  fell  into  conversation, 
which  almost  lasted  out  the  night.  Samson  went  into 
the  confessional.  This  was  the  first  human  being  he  had 
ever  met  to  whom  he  could  unburden  his  soul. 

The  thirst  to  taste  what  knowledge  lay  beyond  the 
hills ;  the  unnamed  wanderlust  that  had  at  times  brought 
him  a  restiveness  so  poignant  as  to  be  agonizing;  the 
undefined  attuning  of  his  heart  to  the  beauty  of  sky 
and  hill;  these  matters  he  had  hitherto  kept  locked  in 
guilty  silence.  To  the  men  of  his  clan  these  were  eccen 
tricities  bordering  on  the  abnormal;  frailties  to  be 
passed  over  with  charity,  as  one  would  pass  over  the 
infirmities  of  an  afflicted  child.  To  Samson  they  looked 
as  to  a  sort  of  feud  Messiah.  His  destiny  was  stern, 
and  held  no  place  for  dreams.  For  him,  they  could 
see  only  danger  in  an  insatiable  hunger  for  learning. 
In  a  weak  man,  a  school-teacher  or  parson  sort  of  a 
man,  that  might  be  natural,  but  this  young  cock  of  their 
walk  was  being  reared  for  the  pit — for  conflict.  What 
was  important  in  him  was  stamina,  and  sharp  strength 
of  spur.  These  qualities  he  had  proven  from  infancy. 
Weakening  proclivities  must  be  eliminated. 

So,  the  boy  had  been  forced  to  keep  throttled  im 
pulses  that,  for  being  throttled,  had  smoldered  and  set 
on  fire  the  inner  depths  of  his  soul.  During  long  nights, 
he  had  secretly  digested  every  available  book.  Yet,  in 
order  to  vindicate  himself  from  the  unspoken  accusation 
of  growing  weak,  of  forgetting  his  destiny,  he  head 


52       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

courted  trouble,  and  sought  combat.  He  was  too  close 
to  his  people's  point  of  view  for  perspective.  He  shared 
their  idea  that  the  thinking  man  weakens  himself  as  a 
fighting  man.  He  had  never  heard  of  a  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac,  or  an  Aramis.  Now  had  come  some  one  with 
whom  he  could  talk:  a  man  who  had  traveled  and  fol 
lowed,  without  shame,  the  beckoning  of  Learning  and 
Beauty.  At  once,  the  silent  boy  found  himself  talking 
intimately,  and  the  artist  found  himself  studying  one 
of  the  strangest  human  paradoxes  he  had  yet  seen. 

In  a  cove,  or  lowland  pocket,  stretching  into  the 
mountainside,  lay  the  small  and  meager  farm  of  the 
Widow  Miller.  The  Widow  Miller  was  a  "South" ;  that 
is  to  say  she  fell,  by  tie  of  marriage,  under  the  protec 
tion  of  the  clan-head.  She  lived  alone  with  her  fourteen- 
year-old  son  and  her  sixteen-year-old  daughter.  The 
daughter  was  Sally.  At  sixteen,  the  woman's  figure 
had  been  as  pliantly  slim,  her  step  as  light  as  was  her 
daughter's  now.  At  forty,  she  was  withered.  Her  face 
was  hard,  and  her  lips  had  forgotten  how  to  smile. 
Her  shoulders  sagged,  and  she  was  an  old  woman,  who 
smoked  her  pipe,  and  taught  her  children  that  rudimen 
tary  code  of  virtue  to  which  the  mountains  subscribe. 
She  believed  in  a  brimstone  hell  and  a  personal  devil. 
She  believed  that  the  whale  had  swallowed  Jonah,  but 
she  thought  that  "Thou  shalt  not  kill"  was  an  edict 
enunciated  by  the  Almighty  with  mental  reservations, 

The  sun  rose  on  the  morning  after  Lescott  arrived, 
the  mists  lifted,  and  the  cabin  of  the  Widow  Miller  stood 
revealed.  Against  its  corners  several  hogs  scraped  their 
bristled  backs  with  satisfied  grunts.  A  noisy  rooster 
cocked  his  head  inquiringly  sidewise  before  the  open 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       53 

door,  and,  hopping  up  to  the  sill,  invaded  the  main 
room.  A  towsled-headed  boy  made  his  way  to  the  barn 
to  feed  the  cattle,  and  a  red  patch  of  color,  as  bright 
and  tuneful  as  a  Kentucky  cardinal,  appeared  at  the 
door  between  the  morning-glory  vines.  The  red  patch 
of  color  was  Sally. 

She  made  her  way,  carrying  a  bucket,  to  the  spring, 
where  she  knelt  down  and  gazed  at  her  own  image  in 
the  water.  Her  grave  lips  broke  into  a  smile,  as  the 
reflected  face,  framed  in  its  mass  of  reflected  red  hair, 
gazed  back  at  her.  Then,  the  smile  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Hello,  Sally  Miller!"  she  gaily  accosted  her  picture- 
self.  "How  air  ye  this  mornin',  Sally  Miller?" 

She  plunged  her  face  deep  in  the  cool  spring,  and 
raised  it  to  shake  back  her  hair,  until  the  water  flew 
from  its  masses.  She  laughed  again,  because  it  was 
another  day,  and  because  she  was  alive.  She  waded 
about  for  a  while  where  the  spring  joined  the  creek, 
and  delightedly  watched  the  schools  of  tiny,  almost 
transparent,  minnows  that  darted  away  at  her  coming. 
Then,  standing  on  a  rock,  she  paused  with  her  head 
bent,  and  listened  until  her  ears  caught  the  faint  tinkle 
of  a  cowbell,  which  she  recognized.  Nodding  her  head 
joyously,  she  went  off  into  the  woods,  to  emerge  at  the 
end  of  a  half -hour  later,  carrying  a  pail  of  milk,  and 
smiling  joyously  again — because  it  was  almost  breakfast 
time. 

But,  before  going  home,  she  set  down  her  bucket  by 
the  stream,  and,  with  a  quick  glance  toward  the  house 
to  make  sure  that  she  was  not  observed,  climbed  through 
the  brush,  and  was  lost  to  view.  She  followed  a  path 
that  her  own  feet  had  made,  and  after  a  steep  course 


54s      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

upward,  came  upon  a  bald  face  of  rock,  which  stood 
out  storm-battered  where  a  rift  went  through  the  back 
bone  of  the  ridge.  This  point  of  vantage  commanded 
the  other  valley.  From  its  edge,  a  white  oak,  dwarfed, 
but  patriarchal,  leaned  out  over  an  abrupt  drop.  No 
more  sweeping  or  splendid  view  could  be  had  within 
miles,  but  it  was  not  for  any  reason  so  general  that 
Sally  had  made  her  pilgrimage.  Down  below,  across 
the  treetops,  were  a  roof  and  a  chimney  from  which 
a  thread  of  smoke  rose  in  an  attenuated  shaft.  That 
was  Spicer  South's  house,  and  Samson's  home.  The 
girl  leaned  against  the  gnarled  bowl  of  the  white  oak, 
and  waved  toward  the  roof  and  chimney.  She  cupped 
her  hands,  and  raised  them  to  her  lips  like  one  who 
means  to  shout  across  a  great  distance,  then  she  whis 
pered  so  low  that  only  she  herself  could  hear : 

"Hello,  Samson  South!" 

She  stood  for  a  space  looking  down,  and  forgot  to 
laugh,  while  her  eyes  grew  religiously  and  softly  deep, 
then,  turning,  she  ran  down  the  slope.  She  had  per 
formed  her  morning  devotions. 

That  day  at  the  house  of  Spicer  South  was  an  off 
day.  The  kinsmen  who  had  stopped  for  the  night 
stayed  on  through  the  morning.  Nothing  was  said  of 
the  possibility  of  trouble.  The  men  talked  crops,  and 
tossed  horseshoes  in  the  yard ;  but  no  one  went  to  work 
in  the  fields,  and  all  remained  within  easy  call.  Only 
young  Tamarack  Spicer,  a  raw-boned  nephew,  wore 
a  sullen  face,  and  made  a  great  show  of  cleaning  his 
rifle  and  pistol.  He  even  went  out  in  the  morning,  and 
practised  at  target-shooting,  and  Lescott,  who  was 
still  very  pale  and  weak,  but  able  to  wander  about  at 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       55 

will,  gained  the  impression  that  in  young  Tamarack 
he  was  seeing  the  true  type  of  the  mountain  "bad-man." 
Tamarack  seemed  willing  to  feed  that  idea,  and  ad 
mitted  apart  to  Lescott  that,  while  he  obeyed  the  dic 
tates  of  the  truce,  he  found  them  galling,  and  was 
'straining  at  his  leash. 

"I  don't  take  nothin'  offen  nobody,"  he  sullenly  con 
fided.  "The  Hollmans  gives  me  my  half  the  road." 

Shortly  after  dinner,  he  disappeared,  and,  when  the 
afternoon  was  well  advanced,  Samson,  too,  with  his  rifle 
on  his  arm,  strolled  toward  the  stile.  Old  Spicer  South 
glanced  up,  and  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  to 
inquire : 

"Whar  be  ye  a-goin'  ?" 

"I  hain't  a-goin'  fur,"  was  the  non-committal  re 
sponse. 

"Meybe  hit  mout  be  a  good  idea  ter  stay  round  clost 
fer  a  spell."  The  old  man  made  the  suggestion  casu 
ally,  and  the  boy  replied  in  the  same  fashion. 

"I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  be  outen  sight." 

He  sauntered  down  the  road,  but,  when  he  had  passed 
out  of  vision,  he  turned  sharply  into  the  woods,  and 
began  climbing.  His  steps  carried  him  to  the  rift  in 
the  ridge  where  the  white  oak  stood  sentinel  over  the 
^atch-tower  of  rock.  As  he  came  over  the  edge  from 
one  side,  his  bare  feet  making  no  sound,  he  saw  Sally 
sitting  there,  with  her  hands  resting  on  the  moss  and 
her  eyes  deeply  troubled.  She  was  gazing  fixedly  ahead, 
and  her  lips  were  trembling.  At  once  Samson's  face 
grew  black.  Some  one  had  been  making  Sally  unhappy. 
Then,  he  saw  beyond  her  a  standing  figure,  which  the 


56       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

tree  trunk  had  hitherto  concealed.     It  was  the  loose- 
knitted  figure  of  young  Tamarack  Spicer. 

"In  course,"  Spicer  was  saying,  "we  don't  'low  Sam 
son  shot  Jesse  Purvy,  but  them  Hollmans  '11  'spicion 
him,  an'  I  heered  just  now,  thet  them  dawgs  was  trackin' 
straight  up  hyar  from  the  mouth  of  Misery.  They'll 
git  hyar  against  sundown." 

Samson  leaped  violently  forward.  With  one  hand, 
he  roughly  seized  his  cousin's  shoulder,  and  wheeled  him 
about. 

"Shet  up!"  he  commanded.  "What  damn  fool  stuff 
hev  ye  been  tellin'  Sally  ?" 

For  an  instant,  the  two  clansmen  stood  fronting  each 
other.  Samson's  face  was  set  and  wrathful.  Tam 
arack's  was  surly  and  snarling.  "Hain't  I  got  a  license 
ter  tell  Sally  the  news?"  he  demanded. 

"Nobody  hain't  got  no  license,"  retorted  the  younger 
man  in  the  quiet  of  cold  anger,  "ter  tell  Sally  nothin* 
thet'll  fret  her." 

"She  air  bound  ter  know  hit  all  pretty  soon.  Them 
dawgs " 

"Didn't  I  tell  ye  ter  shet  up?"  Samson  clenched  his 
fists,  and  took  a  step  forward.  "Ef  ye  opens  yore 
mouth  again,  I'm  a-goin'  ter  smash  hit.  Now,  git !" 

Tamarack    Spicer's  face   blackened,    and    his    teethj 
showed.     His   right  hand  swept  to  his   left   arm-pit. 
Outwardly  he  seemed  weaponless,  but  Samson  knew  that 
concealed  beneath  the  hickory  shirt  was  a  holster,  worn 
mountain  fashion. 

"What  air  ye  a-reachin*  atter,  Tam'rack?"  he  in 
quired,  his  lips  twisting  in  amusement. 

"Thet's  my  business." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       57 

"Well,  get  hit  out — or  git  out  yeself ,  afore  I  throws 
ye  offen  the  clift." 

Sally  showed  no  symptoms  of  alarm.  Her  confidence 
in  her  hero  was  absolute.  The  boy  lifted  his  hand,  and 
pointed  off  down  the  path.  Slowly  and  with  incoherent 
muttering,  Spicer  took  himself  away.  Then  only  did 
Sally  rise.  She  came  over,  and  laid  a  hand  on  Sam 
son's  shoulder.  In  her  blue  eyes,  the  tears  were  welling. 

"Samson,"  she  whispered,  "ef  they're  atter  ye,  come 
ter  my  house.  I  kin  hide  ye  out.  Why  didn't  ye  tell 
me  Jesse  Purvy'd  done  been  shot?" 

"Hit  tain't  nothin'  ter  fret  about,  Sally,"  he  assured 
her.  He  spoke  awkwardly,  for  he  had  been  trained  to 
regard  emotion  as  unmanly.  "Thar  hain't  no  danger." 

She  gazed  searchingly  into  his  eyes,  and  then,  with 
a  short  sob,  threw  her  arms  around  him,  and  buried  her 
face  on  his  shoulder. 

"Ef  anything  happens  ter  ye,  Samson,"  she  said, 
brokenly,  "hit'll  jest  kill  me.  I  couldn't  live  withouten 
ye,  Samson.  I  jest  couldn't  do  hit!" 

The  boy  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  her  close. 
His  eyes  were  gazing  off  over  her  bent  head,  and  his 
lips  twitched.  He  drew  his  features  into  a  scowl, 
because  that  was  the  only  expression  with  which  he  could 
safeguard  his  feelings.  His  voice  was  husky. 

"I  reckon,  Sally,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't  live  withouten 
you,  neither." 

The  party  of  men  who  had  started  at  morning  from 
Jesse  Purvy's  store  had  spent  a  hard  day.  The  roads 
followed  creek-beds,  crossing  and  recrossing  waterways 
in  a  fashion  that  gave  the  bloodhounds  a  hundred  baf 
fling  difficulties.  Often,  their  noses  lost  the  trail,  which 


had  at  first  been  so  surely  taken.  Often,  they  circled 
and  whined,  and  halted  in  perplexity,  but  each  time  they 
came  to  a  point  where,  at  the  end,  one  of  them  again 
raised  his  muzzle  skyward,  and  gave  voice. 

Toward  evening,  they  were  working  up  Misery  along 
a  course  less  broken.  The  party  halted  for  a  moment's 
rest,  and,  as  the  bottle  was  passed,  the  man  from  Lexing 
ton,  who  had  brought  the  dogs  and  stayed  to  conduct 
the  chase,  put  a  question: 

"What  do  you  call  this  creek?" 

"Hit's  Misery." 

"Does  anybody  live  on  Misery  that — er — that  you 
might  suspect?" 

The  Hollmans  laughed. 

"This  creek  is  settled  with  Souths  thicker'n  hops." 

The  Lexington  man  looked  up.  He  knew  what  the 
name  of  South  meant  to  a  Hollman. 

"Is  there  any  special  South,  who  might  have  a  par 
ticular  grudge?" 

"The  Souths  don't  need  no  partic'lar  grudge,  but 
thar's  young  Samson  South.  He's  a  wildcat." 

"He  lives  this  way?" 

"These  dogs  air  a-makin'  a  bee-line  fer  his  house." 
Jim  Hollman  was  speaking.  Then  he  added :  "I've  done 
been  told  that  Samson  denies  doin'  the  shootin',  an' 
claims  he  kin  prove  an  alibi." 

The  Lexington  man  lighted  his  pipe,  and  poured  a 
drink  of  red  whiskey  into  a  flask  cup. 

"He'd  be  apt  to  say  that,"  he  commented,  coolly. 
"These  dogs  haven't  any  prejudice  in  the  matter.  I'll 
stake  my  life  on  their  telling  the  truth." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       59 

An  hour  later,  the  group  halted  again.     The  master 
of  hounds  mopped  his  forehead. 

"Are  we  still  going  toward  Samson  South's  house?" 
he  inquired. 

''We're  about  a  quarter  from  hit  now,  an'  we  hain't 
never  varied  from  the  straight  road." 
'>     "Will  they  be  apt  to  give  us  trouble?" 

Jim  Hollman  smiled. 

"I  hain't  never  heered  of  no  South  submittin'  ter 
arrest  by  a  Hollman." 

The  trailers  examined  their  firearms,  and  loosened 
their  holster-flaps.     The  dogs  went  forward  at  a  trot. 


CHAPTER  VH 

FROM  time  to  time  that  day,  neighbors  had  ridden 
up  to  Spicer  South's  stile,  and  drawn  rein  for 
gossip.     These  men  brought  bulletins  as  to  the 
progress  of  the  hounds,  and  near  sundown,  as  a  post 
script  to  their  information,  a  volley  of  gunshot  signals 
sounded  from  a  mountain  top.     No  word  was  spoken, 
but  in  common  accord  the  kinsmen   rose   from  their 
chairs,  and  drifted  toward  their  leaning  rifles. 

"They're  a-comin'  hyar,"  said  the  head  of  the  house, 
curtly.  "Samson  ought  ter  be  home.  Whar's  Tam'- 
rack?" 

1  No  one  had  noticed  his  absence  until  that  moment, 
nor  was  he  to  be  found.  A  few  minutes  later,  Samson's 
figure  swung  into  sight,  and  his  uncle  met  him  at  the 
fence. 

"Samson,  I've  done  asked  ye  all  the  questions  I'm 
a-goin'  ter  ask  ye,"  he  said,  "but  them  dawgs  is  makin* 
fer  this  house.  They've  jest  been  sighted  a  mile  below.'* 

Samson  nodded.  , 

"Now" — Spicer  South's  face  hardened — "I  owns, 
down  thar  ter  the  road.  No  man  kin  cross  that  fence 
withouten  I  choose  ter  give  him  leave.  Ef  ye  wants 
ter  go  indoors  an'  stay  thar,  ye  kin  do  hit — an'  no 
dawg  ner  no  man  hain't  a-goin'  ter  ask  ye  no  questions. 
But,  ef  ye  sees  fit  ter  face  hit  out,  I'd  love  ter  prove  ter 
these  hyar  men  thet  us  Souths  don't  break  our  word. 

60 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       61 

We  done  agreed  ter  this  truce.  I'd  like  ter  invite  'em 
in,  an'  let  them  damn  dawgs  sniff  round  the  feet  of 
every  man  in  my  house — an'  then,  when  they're  plumb 
teetotally  damn  satisfied,  I'd  like  ter  tell  'em  all  ter 
go  ter  hell.  Thet's  the  way  I  feels,  but  I'm  a-goin'  ter 
do  jest  what  ye  says." 

Lescott  did  not  overhear  the  conversation  in  full,  but 
he  saw  the  old  man's  face  work  with  suppressed  passion, 
and  he  caught  Samson's  louder  reply. 

"When  them  folks  gets  hyar,  Uncle  Spicer,  I'm 
a-goin'  ter  be  a-settin'  right  out  thar  in  front.  I'm 
plumb  willin'  ter  invite  'em  in."  Then,  the  two  men 
turned  toward  the  house. 

Already  the  other  clansmen  had  disappeared  noise 
lessly  through  tlhe  door  or  around  the  angles  of  the 
walls.  The  painter  found  himself  alone  in  a  scene  of 
utter  quiet,  unmarred  by  any  note  that  was  not  peace 
ful.  He  had  seen  many  situations  charged  with  sus 
pense  and  danger,  and  he  now  realized  how  thoroughly 
freighted  was  the  atmosphere  about  Spicer  South's 
cabin  with  the  possibilities  of  bloodshed.  The  moments 
seemed  to  drag  interminably.  In  the  expressionless 
faces  that  so  quietly  vanished;  in  the  absolutely  calm 
and  businesslike  fashion  in  which,  with  no  spoken  order, 
every  man  fell  immediately  into  his  place  of  readiness 
and  concealment,  he  read  an  ominous  portent  that  sent 
a  current  of  apprehension  through  his  arteries.  Into 
his  mind  flashed  all  the  historical  stories  he  had  heard 
of  the  vendetta  life  of  these  wooded  slopes,  and  he 
wondered  if  he  was  to  see  another  chapter  enacted  in 
the  next  few  minutes,  while  the  June  sun  and  soft 
shadows  drowsed  so  quietly  across  the  valley. 


62       THE  GALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

While  he  waited,  Spicer  South's  sister,  the  prema 
turely  aged  crone,  appeared  in  the  kitchen  door  with 
the  clay  pipe  between  her  teeth,  and  raised  a  shading 
hand  to  gaze  off  up  the  road.  She,  too,  understood 
the  tenseness  of  the  situation  as  her  grim,  but  unflinch 
ing,  features  showed ;  yet  even  in  her  feminine  eyes  was 
no  shrinking  and  on  her  face,  inured  to  fear,  was  no 
tell-tale  signal  beyond  a  heightened  pallor. 

Spicer  South  looked  up  at  her,  and  jerked  his  head 
toward  the  house. 

"Git  inside,  M'lindy,"  he  ordered,  curtly,  and  with 
out  a  word  she,  too,  turned  and  disappeared. 

But  there  was  another  figure,  unseen,  its  very  pres 
ence  unsuspected,  watching  from  near  by  with  a  pound 
ing  heart  and  small  fingers  clutching  in  wild  terror  at 
a  palpitant  breast.  In  this  country,  where  human 
creatures  seemed  to  share  with  the  "varmints"  the 
faculty  of  moving  unseen  and  unheard,  the  figure  had 
come  stealthily  to  watch — and  pray. 

When  Samson  had  heard  that  signal  of  the  gunshots 
from  a  distant  peak,  he  had  risen  from  the  rock  where 
he  sat  with  Sally.  He  had  said  nothing  of  the  issue 
he  must  go  to  meet;  nothing  of  the  enemies  who  had 
brought  dogs,  confident  that  they  would  make  their 
run  straight  to  his  lair.  That  subject  had  not  been 
mentioned  between  them  since  he  had  driven  Tamarack 
away  that  afternoon,  and  reassured  her.  He  had  only 
risen  casually,  as  though  his  action  had  no  connection 
with  the  signal  of  the  rifles,  and  said: 

"Reckon  I'll  be  a-goin'." 

Ami  Sally  had  said  nothing  either,  except  gefed-by, 
and  had  turned  her  face  toward  her  own  side  of  the 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERHANBS       €3 

ridge,  but,  as  soon  as  he  had  passed  out  of  sight,  she  had 
wheeled  and  followed  noiselessly,  slipping  from  rhodo 
dendron  clump  to  laurel  thicket  as  stealthily  as  though 
she  were  herself  the  object  of  an  enemy's  attack.  She 
knew  that  Samson  would  have  sent  her  back,  and  she 
knew  that  a  crisis  was  at  hand,  and  that  she  could  not 
support  the  suspense  of  awaiting  the  news.  She  must' 
see  for  herself. 

And  now,  while  the  stage  was  setting  itself,  the  girl 
crouched  trembling  a  little  way  up  the  hillside,  at  the 
foot  of  a  titanic  poplar.  About  her  rose  gray,  moss- 
covered  rocks  and  the  fronds  of  clinging  ferns.  At 
her  feet  bloomed  wild  flowers  for  which  she  knew  no 
names  except  those  with  which  she  had  herself  chris 
tened  them,  "sunsetty  flowers"  whose  yellow  petals  sug 
gested  to  her  imagination  the  western  skies,  and  "fairy 
cups  and  saucers." 

She  was  not  trembling  for  herself,  though,  if  a  fusil 
lade  broke  out  below,  the  masking  screen  of  leafage 
would  not  protect  her  from  the  pelting  of  stray  bullets. 
Her  small  face  was  pallid,  and  her  blue  eyes  wide- 
stretched  and  terrified.  With  a  catch  in  her  throat,  she 
shifted  from  her  crouching  attitude  to  a  kneeling  pos 
ture,  and  clasped  her  hands  desperately,  and  raised  her 
face,  while  her  lips  moved  in  prayer.  She  did  not  pray 
aloud,  for  even  in  her  torment  of  fear  for  the  boy  she 
loved,  her  mountain  caution  made  her  noiseless — and  the 
God  to  whom  she  prayed  could  hear  her  equally  well 
in  silence. 

"Oh,  God,"  pleaded  the  girl,  brokenly,  "I  reckon  ye 
knows  thet  them  Hollmans  is  atter  Samson,  an'  I  reckons 
ye  knows  he  hain't  committed  no  sin.  I  reckon  ye 


64       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

knows,  since  ye  knows  all  things,  thet  hitll  kill  me  ef  I 
loses  him,  an'  though  I  hain't  nobody  but  jest  Sally 
Miller,  an*  ye  air  Almighty  God,  I  wants  ye  ter  hear 
my  prayin',  an'  pertect  him." 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  Lescott,  standing  at  the  fence, 
saw  a  strange  cavalcade  round  the  bend  of  the  road. 
Several  travel-stained  men  were  leading  mules,  and  hold 
ing  two  tawny  and  impatient  dogs  in  leash.  In  their 
number,  the  artist  recognized  his  host  of  two  nights  ago. 

They  halted  at  a  distance,  and  in  their  faces  the 
artist  read  dismay,  for,  while  the  dogs  were  yelping 
confidently  and  tugging  at  their  cords,  young  Samson 
South — who  should,  by  their  prejudiced  convictions,  be 
hiding  out  in  some  secret  stronghold — sat  at  the  top 
step  of  the  stile,  smoking  his  pipe,  and  regarded  them 
with  a  lack-luster  absence  of  interest.  Such  a  calm 
reception  was  uncanny.  The  trailers  felt  sure  that  in 
a  moment  more  the  dogs  would  fall  into  accusing  excite 
ment.  Logically,  these  men  should  be  waiting  to  receive 
them  behind  barricaded  doors.  There  must  be  some 
hidden  significance.  Possibly,  it  was  an  invitation  to 
walk  into  ambuscade.  No  doubt,  unseen  rifles  covered 
their  approach,  and  the  shooting  of  Purvy  was  only  the 
inaugural  step  to  a  bloody  and  open  outbreak  of  the 
'war.  After  a  whispered  conference,  the  Lexington  man 
came  forward  alone.  Old  Spicer  South  had  been  looking 
on  from  the  door,  and  was  now  strolling  out  to  meet  the 
envoy,  unarmed. 

And  the  envoy,  as  he  came,  held  his  hands  unneces 
sarily  far  away  from  his  sides,  and  walked  with  an  osten 
tatious  show  of  peace. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       65 

"Evenin',  stranger,"  hailed  the  old  man.  "Come 
right  in." 

"Mr.  South,"  began  the  dog-owner,  with  some  embar 
rassment,  "I  have  been  employed  to  furnish  a  pair  of 
bloodhounds  to  the  family  of  Jesse  Purvy,  who  has 
been  shot."  . 

"I  heerd  tell  thet  Purvy  was  shot,"  said  t^e  head  of' 
the  Souths  in  an  affable  tone,  which  betrayed  no  deeper 
note  of  interest  than  neighborhood  gossip  might  have 
elicited. 

"I  have  no  personal  interest  in  the  matter,"  went 
on  the  stranger,  hastily,  as  one  bent  on  making  his 
attitude  clear,  "except  to  supply  the  dogs  and  manage 
them.  I  do  not  in  any  way  direct  their  course ;  I  merely 
follow." 

"Ye  can't  hardly  fo'ce  a  dawg."  Old  Spicer  sagely 
nodded  his  head  as  he  made  the  remark.  "A  dawg  jest 
natcher'ly  follers  his  own  nose." 

"Exactly — and  they  have  followed  their  noses  here." 
The  Lexington  man  found  the  embarrassment  of  his 
position  growing  as  the  colloquy  proceeded.  "I  want 
to  ask  you  whether,  if  these  dogs  want  to  cross  your 
fence,  I  have  your  permission  to  let  them?" 

The  cabin  in  the  yard  was  utterly  quiet.  There  was 
no  hint  of  the  seven  or  eight  men  who  rested  on  their 
arms  behind  its  half-open  door.  The  master  of  the  house 
crossed  the  stile,  the  low  sun  shining  on  his  shock  of 
gray  hair,  and  stood  before  the  man-hunter.  He  spoke 
so  that  his  voice  carried  to  the  waiting  group  in  the 
road. 

"Ye're  plumb  welcome  ter  turn  them  dawgs  loose,  an* 
let  'em  ramble,  stranger.  Nobody  hain't  a-goin'  ter 


66       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

hurt  'em.  I  sees  some  fellers  out  thar  with  ye  thet 
mustn't  cross  my  fence.  Ef  they  does" — the  voice  rang 
menacingly — "hit'll  mean  that  they're  a-bustin'  the 
truce — an'  they  won't  never  go  out  ag*in.  But  you  air 
safe  in  hyar.  I  gives  yer  my  hand  on  thet.  Ye're  wel 
come,  an'  yore  dawgs  is  welcome.  I  hain't  got  nothin' 
'gainst  dawgs  thet  comes  on  four  legs,  but  I  shore  bars 
the  two-legged  kind." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  astonishment  from  the  road. 
Disregarding-  \t,  Spicer  South  turned  his  face  toward 
the  house. 

"You  boys  kin  come  out,"  he  shouted,  "an'  leave  yore 
guns  inside." 

The  leashes  were  slipped  from  the  dogs.  They  leaped 
forward,  and  wade  directly  for  Samson,  who  sat  as 
unmoving  as  a  lifeless  image  on  the  top  step  of  the 
stile.  Up  on  the  hillside  the  fingernails  of  Sally  Miller's 
clenched  hands  cut  into  the  flesh,  and  the  breath  stopped 
between  her  parted  and  bloodless  lips.  There  was  a 
half -moment  of  terrific  suspense,  then  the  beasts  clam 
bered  by  the  seated  figure,  passing  on  each  side  and 
circled  aimlessly  about  the  yard — their  quest  unended. 
They  sniffed  indifferently  about  the  trouser  legs  of  the 
men  who  sauntered  indolently  out  of  the  door.  They 
trotted  into  the  house  and  out  again,  and  mingled  with 
the  mongrel  home  pack  that  snarled  and  growled  hos 
tility  for  this  invasion.  Then,  they  came  once  more  to 
the  stile.  As  they  climbed  out,  Samson  South  reached  up 
and  stroked  a  tawny  head,  and  the  bloodhound  paused 
a  moment  to  wag  its  tail  in  friendship,  before  it  jumped 
down  to  the  road,  and  trotted  gingerly  onward. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       67 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  man  from  the 
Bluegrass,  with  a  voice  of  immense  relief. 

The  moment  of  suspense  seemed  past,  and,  in  the 
relief  of  the  averted  clash,  the  master  of  hounds  forgot 
that  his  dogs  stood  branded  as  false  trailers.  But,  when 
he  rejoined  the  group  in  the  road,  he  found  himself 
looking  into  surly  visages,  and  the  features  of  Jim' 
Hollman  in  particular  were  black  in  their  scowl  of 
smoldering  wrath. 

"Why  didn't  ye  axe  him,"  growled  the  kinsman  of  the 
man  who  had  been  shot,  "whar  the  other  feller's  at?" 

"What  other  fellow?"  echoed  the  Lexington  man. 

Jim  Hollman's  voice  rose  truculently,  and  his  words 
drifted,  as  he  meant  them  to,  across  to  the  ears  of  the 
clansmen  who  stood  in  the  yard  of  Spicer  South. 

"Them  dawgs  of  your'n  come  up  Misery  a-hellin'. 
They  hain't  never  turned  aside,  an',  onless  they're  plumb 
ornery  no-'count  curs  thet  don't  know  their  business, 
they  come  for  some  reason.  They  seemed  mighty  inter 
ested  in  gittin'  hyar.  Axe  them  fellers  in  thar  who's 
been  hyar  thet  hain't  hyar  now?  Who  is  ther  feller  thet 
got  out  afore  we  come  hyar." 

At  this  veiled  charge  of  deceit,  the  faces  of  the  Souths 
again  blackened,  and  the  men  near  the  door  of  the 
house  drifted  in  to  drift  presently  out  again,  swinging, 
discarded  Winchesters  at  their  sides.  It  seemed  that/ 
after  all,  the  incident  was  not  closed.  The  man  from 
Lexington,  finding  himself  face  to  face  with  a  new  diffi 
culty,  turned  and  argued  in  a  low  voice  with  the  Hollman 
leader.  But  Jim  Hollman,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Samson,  refused  to  talk  in  a  modulated  tone,  and  he 
shouted  his  reply : 


"I  hain't  got  nothin'  ter  whisper  about,"  he  pro 
claimed.  "Go  axe  'em  who  hit  war  thet  got  away  from 
hyar." 

Old  Spicer  South  stood  leaning  on  his  fence,  aiid  his 
rugged  countenance  stiffened.  He  started  to  speak, 
but  Samson  rose  from  the  stile,  and  said,  in  a  c  imposed 
voice : 

"Let  me  talk  ter  this  feller,  Unc'  Spicer."  The  old 
man  nodded,  and  Samson  beckoned  to  the  owner  of  the 
dogs. 

"We  hain't  got  nothin'  ter  say  ter  them  fellers  with 
ye,"  he  announced,  briefly.  "We  hahVt  axin'  'em  no 
questions,  an'  we  hain't  answerin'  none.  Ye  done  come 
hyar  with  dawgs,  an'  we  hain't  stopped  ye.  We've  done 
answered  alt  the  questions  them  dawgs  hes  axed.  We 
done  treated  you  an'  yore  houn's  plumb  friendly.  Es 
f  er  them  other  men,  we  hain't  got  nothin'  ter  say  ter  'em. 
They  done  come  hyar  because  they  hoped  they  could  git 
me  in  trouble.  They  done  failed.  Thet  road  belongs  ter 
the  county.  They  got  a  license  ter  travel  hit,  but  this 
strip  right  hyar  hain't  ther  healthiest  section  they  kin 
find.  I  reckon  ye'd  better  advise  'em  ter  move  on." 

The  Lexington  man  went  back.  For  a  minute  or  two, 
Jim  Hollman  sat  scowling  down  in  indecision  from  his 
saddle.  Then,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he  had  done 
all  he  could  do  without  becoming  the  aggressor.  For 
the  moment,  he  was  beaten.  He  looked  up,  and  from 
the  road  one  of  the  hounds  raised  its  voice  and  gave  cry. 
That  baying  afforded  an  excuse  for  leaving,  and  Jim 
Hollman  seized  upon  it. 

"Go  on,"  he  growled.  "Let's  see  what  them  damned 
curs  hes  ter  say  now." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS      69 

Mounting,  they  kicked  their  mules  into  a  jog.  From 
the  men  inside  the  fence  came  no  note  of  derision;  no 
hint  of  triumph.  They  stood  looking  out  with  expres 
sionless,  mask-like  faces  until  their  enemies  had  passed 
out  of  sight  around  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  The 
Souths  had  met  and  fronted  an  accusation  made  after 
the  enemy's  own  choice  and  method.  A  jury  of  two 
hounds  had  acquitted  them.  It  was  not  only  because 
the  dogs  had  refused  to  recognize  in  Samson  a  suspicious 
character  that  the  enemy  rode  on  grudgingly  convinced, 
but,  also,  because  the  family,  which  had  invariably  met 
hostility  with  hostility,  had  so  willingly  courted  the 
acid  test  of  guilt  or  innocence. 

Samson,  passing  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
caught  a  flash  of  red  up  among  the  green  clumps  of  the 
mountainside,  and,  pausing  to  gaze  at  it,  saw  it  disap 
pear  into  the  thicket  of  brush.  He  knew  then  that 
Sally  had  followed  him,  and  why  she  had  done  it,  and, 
framing  a  stern  rebuke  for  the  f oolhardiness  of  the  ven 
ture,  he  plunged  up  the  acclivity  in  pursuit.  But,  as 
he  made  his  way  cautiously,  he  heard  around  the  shoulder 
of  a  mass  of  piled-up  sandstone  a  shaken  sobbing,  and, 
slipping  toward  it,  found  the  girl  bent  over  with  her 
face  in  her  hands,  her  slender  body  convulsively  heaving 
with  the  weeping  of  reaction,  and  murmuring  half- 
incoherent  prayers  of  thanksgiving  for  his  deliverance. 

"Sally!"  he  exclaimed,  hurrying  over  and  dropping 
to  his  knees  beside  her.  "Sally,  thar  hain't  nothin'  ter 
fret  about,  little  gal.  Hit's  all  right." 

She  started  up  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  then, 
pillowing  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  wept  tears  of  happi 
ness.  He  sought  for  words,  but  no  words  came,  and 


70       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

his  lips  and  eyes,  unused  to  soft  expressions,  drew  them 
selves  once  more  into  the  hard  mask  with  which  he 
screened  his  heart's  moods. 

Days  passed  uneventfully  after  that.  The  kinsmen 
dispersed  to  their  scattered  coves  and  cabins.  Now  and 
again  came  a  rumor  that  Jesse  Purvy  was  dying,  but 
always  hard  on  its  heels  came  another  to  the  effect  that 
the  obdurate  fighter  had  rallied,  though  the  doctors  held 
out  small  encouragement  of  recovery. 

One  day  Lescott,  whose  bandaged  arm  gave  him  much 
pain,  but  who  was  able  to  get  about,  was  strolling  not 
far  from  the  house  with  Samson.  They  were  follow 
ing  a  narrow  trail  along  the  mountainside,  and,  at  a 
sound  no  louder  than  the  falling  of  a  walnut,  the  boy 
halted  and  laid  a  silencing  hand  on  the  painter's 
shoulder.  Then  followed  an  unspoken  command  in  his 
companion's  eyes.  Lescott  sank  down  behind  a  rock, 
cloaked  with  glistening  rhododendron  leafage,  where 
Samson  had  already  crouched,  and  become  immovable 
and  noiseless.  They  had  been  there  only  a  short  time 
when  they  saw  another  figure  slipping  quietly  from 
tree  to  tree  below  them. 

For  a  time,  the  mountain  boy  watched  the  figure, 
and  che  painter  saw  his  lips  draw  into  a  straight  line, 
and  his  eyes  narrow  with  a  glint  of  tense  hate.  Yet,  a 
moment  later,  with  a  nod  to  follow,  the  boy  unex 
pectedly  rose  into  view,  and  his  features  were  absolutely 
expressionless. 

"Mornin',  Jim,"  he  called. 

The  slinking  stranger  whirled  with  a  start,  and  an 
instinctive  motion  as  though  to  bring  his  rifle  to  his 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       71 

shoulder.  But,  seeing  Samson's  peaceable  manner,  he 
smiled,  and  his  own  demeanor  became  friendly. 

"Mornin'j  Samson." 

"Kinder  stranger  in  this  country,  hain't  ye,  Jim?" 
drawled  the  boy  who  lived  there,  and  the  question 
brought  a  sullen  flush  to  the  other's  cheekbones. 

"Jest  a-passin'  through,"  he  vouchsafed. 

"I  reckon  ye'd  find  the  wagon  road  more  handy," 
suggested  Samson.  "Some  folks  might  'spicion  ye  fer 
stealin'  long  through  the  timber." 

The  skulking  traveler  decided  to  lie  plausibly.  He 
laughed  mendaciously.  "That's  the  reason,  Samson. 
I  was  kinder  skeered  ter  go  through  this  country  in 
the  open." 

Samson  met  his  eye  steadily,  and  said  slowly: 

"I  reckon,  Jim,  hit  moughtn't  be  half  es  risky  fer  ye 
ter  walk  upstandin'  along  Misery,  es  ter  go  a-crouchin'. 
Ye  thinks  ye've  been  a  shadderin'  me.  I  knows  jest 
whar  ye've  been  all  the  time.  Ye  lies  when  ye  talks 
'bout  passin'  through.  Ye've  done  been  spyin'  hyar, 
ever  since  Jesse  Purvy  got  shot,  an'  all  thet  time  ye've 
done  been  watched  yeself.  I  reckon  hit'll  be  healthier 
fer  ye  ter  do  yore  spyin'  from  t'other  side  of  the  ridge. 
I  reckon  yer  allowin'  ter  git  me  ef  Purvy  dies,  but  we're 
twatchin'  ye." 

Jim  Asberry's  face  darkened,  but  he  said  nothing. 
There  was  nothing  to  say.  He  was  discovered  in  the 
enemy's  country,  and  must  accept  the  enemy's  terms. 

"This  hyar  time,  I  lets  ye  go  back,"  said  Samson, 
"fer  the  reason  thet  I'm  tryin'  like  all  hell  ter  keep  this 
truce.  But  ye  must  stay  on  yore  side,  or  else  ride  the 
roads  open.  How  is  Purvy  terday?" 


it,       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

)  "He's  mighty  porely,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  sullen 
voice. 

"All  right.  Thet's  another  reason  why  hit  hain't 
healthy  fer  ye  over  hyar." 

The  spy  turned,  and  made  his  way  over  the  mountain. 

"Damn  him!"  muttered  Samson,  his  face  twitching, 
as  the  other  was  lost  in  the  undergrowth.  "Some  day 
I'm  a-goin'  ter  git  him." 

Tamarack  Spicer  did  not  at  once  reappear,  and, 
when  one  of  the  Souths  met  another  in  the  road,  the 
customary  dialogue  would  be:  "Heered  anything  of 
Tamarack?"  .  .  .  "No,  hev  you?"  .  .  .  "No, 
nary  a  word." 

As  Lescott  wandered  through  the  hills,  his  unhurt 
right  hand  began  crying  out  for  action  and  a  brush 
to  nurse.  As  he  watched,  day  after  day,  the  unveiling 
of  the  monumental  hills,  and  Ihe  transitions  from  hazy 
wraith-like  whispers  of  hues,  to  strong,  flaring  riot  of 
color,  this  fret  of  restlessness  became  actual  pain.  He 
was  wasting  wonderful  opportunity  and  the  creative 
instinct  in  him  was  clamoring. 

One  morning,  when  he  came  out  just  after  sunrise  to 
the  tin  wash  basin  at  the  well,  the  desire  to  paint  was 
on  him  with  compelling  force.  The  hills  ended  near 
their  bases  like  things  bitten  off.  Beyond  lay  limitless 
streamers  of  mist,  but,  while  he  stood  at  gaze,  the  filmy 
veil  began  to  lift  and  float  higher.  Trees  and  moun 
tains  grew  taller.  The  sun,  which  showed  first  as  a 
ghost-like  disc  of  polished  aluminum,  struggled  through 
orange  and  vermilion  into  a  sphere  of  living  flame.  It 
was  as  though  the  Creator  were  breathing  on  a  formless 
void  to  kindle  it  into  a  vital  and  splendid  cosmos,  and 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       7S 


between  the  dawn's  fog  and  the  radiance  of  full 
lay  a  dozen  miracles.  Through  rifts  in  the  streamers, 
patches  of  hillside  and  sky  showed  for  an  ethereal 
moment  or  two  in  tender  and  transparent  coloration, 
like  spirit-reflections  of  emerald  and  sapphire.  .  .  . 
iLescott  heard  a  voice  at  his  side. 

"When  does  ye  'low  ter  commence  paintin'?" 

It  was  Samson.  For  answer,  the  artist,  with  his 
unhurt  hand,  impatiently  tapped  his  bandaged  wrist. 

"Ye  still  got  yore  right  hand,  hain't  ye?"  demanded 
the  boy.  The  other  laughed.  It  was  a  typical  ques 
tion.  So  long  as  one  had  the  trigger  finger  left,  one 
should  not  admit  disqualification. 

"You  see,  Samson,'  he  explained,  "this  isn't  precisely 
like  handling  a  gun.  One  must  hold  the  palette;  mix 
the  colors  ;  wipe  the  brushes  and  do  half  a  dozen  equally 
necessary  things.  It  requires  at  least  two  perfectly 
good  hands.  Many  people  don't  find  two  enough.5' 

"But  hit  only  takes  one  ter  do  the  paintin',  don't  hit?" 

"Yes." 

"Well"  —  the  boy  spoke  diffidently  but  with  enthu 
siasm  —  "between  the  two  of  us,  we've  got  three  hands. 
I  reckon  ye  kin  lam  me  how  ter  do  them  other  things 
fer  ye." 

Lescott's  surprise  showed  in  his  face,  and  the  lad 
swept  eagerly  on. 

"Mebby  hit  hain't  none  of  my  business,  but,  all  day 
yestiddy  an'  the  day  befo',  I  was  a-studyin'  'bout  this 
here  thing,  an'  I  hustled  up  an'  got  thet  corn  weeded, 
an'  now  I'm  through.  Ef  I  kin  help  ye  out,  I  thought 
mebby  —  "  He  paused,  and  looked  appealingly  at  the 
artist. 


74       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Lescott  whistled,  and  then  his  face  lighted  into  con 
tentment. 

"To-day,  Samson,"  he  announced,  "Lescott,  South 
and  Company  get  busy." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Samson  smile,  and, 
although  the  expression  was  one  of  sheer  delight,  in 
herent  somberness  loaned  it  a  touch  of  the  wistful. 

When,  an  hour  later,  the  two  set  out,  the  mountain 
boy  carried  the  paraphernalia,  and  the  old  man  stand 
ing  at  the  door  watched  them  off  with  a  half-quizzical, 
half -disapproving  glance.  To  interfere  with  any  act 
of  courtesy  to  a  guest  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  but 
already  the  influence  en  Samson  of  this  man  from  the 
other  world  was  disquieting  his  uncle's  thoughts.  With 
his  mother's  milk,  the  boy  had  fed  on  hatred  of  his 
enemies.  With  his  training,  he  had  been  reared  to 
feudal  animosities.  Disaffection  might  ruin  his  useful 
ness.  Besides  the  sketching  outfit,  Samson  carried  his 
rifle.  He  led  the  painter  by  slow  stages,  since  the 
climb  proved  hard  for  a  man  still  somewhat  enfeebled, 
to  the  high  rock  which  Sally  visited  each  morning. 

As  the  boy,  with  remarkable  aptitude,  learned  how 
to  adjust  the  easel  and  arrange  the  paraphernalia, 
Lescott  sat  drinking  in  through  thirsty  eyes  the  stretch 
of  landscape  he  had  determined  to  paint. 

It  was  his  custom  to  look  long  and  studiously  through 
closed  lashes  before  he  took  up  his  brush.  After  that 
he  began  laying  in  his  key  tones  and  his  fundamental 
sketching  with  an  incredible  swiftness,  having  already 
Delved  his  problems  of  composition  and  analysis. 

Then,  while  he  painted,  the  boy  held  the  palette,  his 
eyes  riveted  on  the  canvas,  which  was  growing  from  a 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       75 

blank  to  a  mirror  of  vistas — and  the  boy's  pupils  be 
came  deeply  hungry.  He  was  not  only  looking.  He 
was  seeing.  His  gaze  took  in  the  way  the  fingers  held 
the  brushes ;  the  manner  of  mixing  the  pigments,  the 
detail  of  method.  Sometimes,  when  he  saw  a  brush 
vdab  into  a  color  whose  use  he  did  not  at  once  under- 
;Stand,  he  would  catch  his  breath  anxiously,  then  nod 
silently  to  himself  as  the  blending  vindicated  the  choice. 
He  did  not  know  it,  but  his  eye  for  color  was  as 
instinctively  true  as  that  of  the  master. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  they  fell  to  talking,  and  the 
boy  again  found  himself  speaking  of  his  fettered  rest- 
iveness  in  the  confinement  of  his  life ;  of  the  wanderlust 
which  stirred  him,  and  of  which  he  had  been  taught  to 
feel  ashamed. 

During  one  of  their  periods  of  rest,  there  was  a 
rustle  in  the  branches  of  a  hickory,  and  a  gray  shape 
flirted  a  bushy  tail.  Samson's  hand  slipped  silently 
out,  and  the  rifle  came  to  his  shoulder.  In  a  moment 
it  snapped,  and  a  squirrel  dropped  through  the  leaves. 

"Jove!"  exclaimed  Lescott,  admiringly.  "That  was 
neat  work.  He  was  partly  behind  the  limb — at  a  hun 
dred  yards." 

"Hit  warn't  nothin',"  said  Samson,  modestly.  "Hit's 
'.a  good  gun."  He  brought  back  his  quarry,  and  affec 
tionately  picked  up  the  rifle.  It  was  a  repeating  Win 
chester,  carrying  a  long  steel- jacketed  bullet  of  special 
caliber,  but  it  was  of  a  pattern  fifteen  years  old,  and 
fitted  with  target  sights. 

"That  gun,"  Samson  explained,  in  a  lowered  and  rev 
erent  voice,  "was  my  pap's.  I  reckon  there  hain't 
enough  money  in  the  world  ter  buy  hit  offen  me.," 


76       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Slowly,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  he  began  a  story 
without  decoration  of  verbiage — straightforward  and 
tense  in  its  simplicity.  As  the  painter  listened,  he  be 
gan  to  understand;  the  gall  that  had  crept  into  this 
lad's  blood  before  his  weaning  became  comprehensible. 
.  .  .  Killing  Hollmans  was  not  murder.  ...  It 
was  duty.  He  seemed  to  see  the  smoke-blackened  cabin 
and  the  mother  of  the  boy  sitting,  with  drawn  face,  in 
dread  of  the  hours.  He  felt  the  racking  nerve-tension 
of  a  life  in  which  the  father  went  forth  each  day  leaving 
his  family  in  fear  that  he  would  not  return.  Then, 
under  the  spell  of  the  unvarnished  recital,  he  seemed  to 
witness  the  crisis  when  the  man,  who  had  dared  repu 
diate  the  lawless  law  of  individual  reprisal,  paid  the 
price  of  his  insurgency. 

A  solitary  friend  had  come  in  advance  to  break  the 
news.  His  face,  when  he  awkwardly  commenced  to 
speak,  made  it  unnecessary  to  put  the  story  into  words. 
Samson  told  how  his  mother  had  turned  pallid,  and 
stretched  out  her  arm  gropingly  for  support  against 
the  door-jamb.  Then  the  man  had  found  his  voice  with 
clumsy  directness. 

"They've  got  him." 

The  small  boy  had  reached  her  in  time  tc  break  her 
fall  as  she  fainted,  but,  later,  when  they  brought  in 
the  limp,  unconscious  man,  she  was  awaiting  them  with 
regained  composure.  An  expression  came  to  her  face 
at  that  moment,  said  the  lad,  which  had  never  left  it 
during  the  remaining  two  years  of  her  life.  For  some 
hours,  "old"  Henry  South,  who  in  a  less-wasting  life 
would  hardly  have  been  middle-aged,  had  lingered.  They 
were  hours  of  conscious  suffering,  with  no  power  to 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS      77 

speak,  but  before  he  died  he  had  beckoned  his  ten-year- 
old  son  to  his  bedside,  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  dark, 
rumpled  hair.  The  boy  bent  forward,  his  eyes  tortured 
and  tearless,  and  his  little  lips  tight  pressed.  The 
old  man  patted  the  head,  and  made  a  feeble  gesture 
toward  the  mother  who  was  to  be  widowed.  Samson 
had  nodded. 

"I'll  take  keer  of  her,  pap,"  he  had  fervently  sworn. 

Then,  Henry  South  had  lifted  a  tremulous  finger, 
and  pointed  to  the  wall  above  the  hearth.  There,  upon 
a  set  of  buck-antlers,  hung  the  Winchester  rifle.  And, 
again,  Samson  had  nodded,  but  this  time  he  did  not 
speak.  That  moment  was  to  his  mind  the  most  sacred 
of  his  life ;  it  had  been  a  dedication  to  a  purpose.  The 
arms  of  the  father  had  then  and  there  been  bequeathed 
to  the  son,  and  with  the  arms  a  mission  for  their  use. 
After  a  brief  pause,  Samson  told  of  the  funeral.  He 
had  a  remarkable  way  of  visualizing  in  rough  speech 
the  desolate  picture ;  the  wailing  mourners  on  the  bleak 
hillside,  with  the  November  clouds  hanging  low  and  trail 
ing  their  wet  streamers.  A  "jolt-wagon"  had  carried 
the  coffin  in  lieu  of  a  hearse.  Saddled  mules  stood 
tethered  against  the  picket  fence.  The  dogs  that  had 
followed  their  masters  started  a  rabbit  close  by  the 
open  grave,  and  split  the  silence  with  their  yelps  as 
the  first  clod  fell.  He  recalled,  too,  the  bitter  voice 
with  which  his  mother  had  spoken  to  a  kinsman  as  she 
turned  from  the  ragged  burying  ground,  where  only 
the  forlorn  cedars  were  green.  She  was  leaning  on  the 
boy's  thin  shoulders  at  the  moment.  He  had  felt  her 
arm  stiffen  with  her  words,  and,  as  her  arm  stiffened, 
his  own  positive  nature  stiffened  with  it. 


78      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Henry  believed  in  law  and  order.  I  did,  too.  But 
they  wouldn't  let  us  have  it  that  way.  From  this  day 
on,  I'm  a-goin'  to  raise  my  boy  to  kill  Hollmans." 


WITH  his  father's  death  Samson's  schooling. had 
ended.      His    responsibility    now    was    farm 
work  and  the  roughly  tender  solicitude  of  a 
young  stoic  for  his  mother.     His  evenings  before  the 
broad  fireplace  he  gave  up  to  a  devouring  sort  of  study, 
but  his  books  were  few. 

When,  two  years  later,  he  laid  the  body  of  the  Widow 
South  beside  that  of  his  father  in  the  ragged  hillside 
burying-ground,  he  turned  his  nag's  head  away  from 
the  cabin  where  he  had  been  born,  and  rode  over  to 
make  his  home  at  his  Uncle  Spicer's  place.  He  had, 
in  mountain  parlance,  "heired"  a  farm  of  four  hundred 
acres,  but  a  boy  of  twelve  can  hardly  operate  a  farm, 
even  if  he  be  so  stalwart  a  boy  as  Samson.  His  Uncle 
Spicer  wanted  him,  and  he  went,  and  the  head  of  the 
family  took  charge  of  his  property  as  guardian ;  placed 
a  kinsman  there  to  till  it,  on  shares,  and  faithfully 
set  aside  for  the  boy  what  revenue  came  from  the 
stony  acres.  He  knew  that  they  would  be  rich  acres 
when  men  began  to  dig  deeper  than  the  hoe  could 
scratch,  and  opened  the  veins  where  the  coal  slept  its 
unstirring  sleep.  The  old  man  had  not  set  such  store 
by  learning  as  had  Samson's  father,  and  the  little 
shaver's  education  ended,  except  for  what  he  could  wrest 
from  stinted  sources  and  without  aid.  His  mission  of 
"killing  Hollmans"  was  not  forgotten.  There  had 

79 


years  ago  been  one  general  battle  at  a  primary,  when 
the  two  factions  fought  for  the  control  that  would 
insure  the  victors  safety  against  "law  trouble,"  and 
put  into  their  hands  the  weapons  of  the  courts. 

Samson  was  far  too  young  to  vote,  but  he  was  old 
i  enough  to  fight,  and  the  account  he  had  given  of  him- 
.self,  with  the  inherited  rifle  smoking,  gave  augury  of 
fighting  effectiveness.  So  sanguinary  had  been  this 
fight,  and  so  dangerously  had  it  focused  upon  the  war 
ring  clans  the  attention  of  the  outside  world,  that  after 
its  indecisive  termination,  they  made  the  compact  of 
the  present  truce.  By  its  terms,  the  Hollmans  held 
their  civil  authority,  and  the  Souths  were  to  be  undis 
turbed  dictators  beyond  Misery.  For  some  years  now, 
the  peace  had  been  unbroken  save  by  sporadic  assassina 
tions,  none  of  which  could  be  specifically  enough  charged 
to  the  feud  account  to  warrant  either  side  in  regarding 
the  contract  as  broken.  Samson,  being  a  child,  had 
been  forced  to  accept  the  terms  of  this  peace  bondage. 
The  day  would  come  when  the  Souths  could  agree  to 
no  truce  without  his  consent.  Such  was,  in  brief,  the 
story  that  the  artist  heard  while  he  painted  and  rested 
that  day  on  the  rock.  Had  he  heard  it  in  New  York, 
he  would  have  discounted  it  as  improbable  and  melo 
dramatic.  Now,  he  knew  that  it  was  only  one  of  many 
such  chapters  in  the  history  of  the  Cumberlands.  The 
native  point  of  view  even  became  in  a  degree  acceptable. 
In  a  system  of  trial  by  juries  from  the  vicinage,  fair 
and  bold  prosecutions  for  crime  were  impossible,  and 
such  as  pretended  to  be  so  were  bitterly  tragic  farces. 
He  understood  why  the  families  of  murdered  fathers 
and  brothers  preferred  to  leave  the  punishment  to 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       81 

their  kinsmen  in  the  laurel,  rather  than  to  their  enemies 
in  the  jury-box. 

The  day  of  painting  was  followed  by  others  like  it. 
The  disabling  of  Lescott's  left  hand  made  the  constant 
companionship  of  the  boy  a  matter  that  needed  no  ex 
planation  or  apology,  though  not  a  matter  of  approval 
to  his  uncle. 

Another  week  had  passed  without  the  reappearance  of 
Tamarack  Spicer. 

One  afternoon,  Lescott  and  Samson  were  alone  on  a 
cliff-protected  shelf,  and  the  painter  had  just  blocked 
in  with  umber  and  neutral  tint  the  crude  sketch  of  his 
next  picture.  In  the  foreground  was  a  steep  wall,  rising 
palisade-like  from  the  water  below.  A  kingly  spruce- 
pine  gave  the  near  note  for  a  perspective  which  went 
away  across  a  valley  of  cornfields  to  heaping  and  distant 
mountains.  Beyond  that  range,  in  a  slender  ribbon  of 
pale  purple,  one  saw  the  ridge  of  a  more  remote  and 
mightier  chain. 

The  two  men  had  lost  an  hour  huddled  under  a  canopy 
beneath  the  cannonading  of  a  sudden  storm.  They  had 
silently  watched  titanic  battallions  of  thunder-clouds 
riding  the  skies  in  gusty  puffs  of  gale,  and  raking  the 
earth  with  lightning  and  hail  and  water.  The  crags 
had  roared  back  echoing  defiance,  and  the  great  trees 
had  lashed  and  bent  and  tossed  like  weeds  in  the  buf 
feting.  Every  gully  had  become  a  stream,  and  every 
gulch-rock  a  waterfall.  Here  and  there  had  been  a 
crashing  of  spent  timber,  and  now  the  sun  had  burst 
through  a  rift  in  the  west,  and  flooded  a  segment  of 
the  horizon  with  a  strange,  luminous  field  of  lemon. 
About  this  zone  of  clarity  were  heaped  masses  of 


gold-rimmed  and  rose-edged  clouds,  still  inky  at  their 
centers. 

"My  G«d!"  exclaimed  the  mountain  boy  abruptly. 
"I'd  give  'most  anything  ef  I  could  paint  that." 

Lescott  rose  smilingly  from  his  seat  before  the  easel, 
and  surrendered  his  palette  and  sheaf  of  brushes. 

"Try  it,"  he  invited. 

For  a  moment,  Samson  stood  hesitant  and  overcome 
with  diffidence;  then,  with  set  lips,  he  took  his  place, 
and  experimentally  fitted  his  fingers  about  a  brush,  as 
he  had  seen  Lescott  do.  He  asked  no  advice.  He  merely 
gazed  for  awhile,  and  then,  dipping  a  brush  and  experi 
menting  for  his  color,  went  to  sweeping  in  his  primary 
tones. 

The  painter  stood  at  his  back,  still  smiling.  Of 
course,  the  bmsk-«troke  was  that  of  the  novice.  Of 
course,  the  work  was  clumsy  and  heavy.  But  what 
Lescott  noticed  was  not  so  much  the  things  that  went 
on  canvas  as  the  mixing  of  colors  on  the  palette,  for 
he  knew  that  the  palette  is  the  painter's  heart,  and  its 
colors  are  the  elements  of  his  soul.  What  a  man  paints 
on  canvas  is  the  sum  of  his  acquirement ;  but  the  celers 
he  mixes  are  the  declarations  of  what  his  soul  can  see, 
and  no  man  can  paint  whose  eyes  are  not  touched  with 
the  sublime.  At  that  moment,  Lescott  knew  that  Sam 
son  had  such  eyes. 

The  splashes  of  lemon  yellow  that  the  boy  daubed 
above  the  hills  might  have  been  painted  with  a  brush 
dipped  in  the  sunset.  The  heavy  clouds  with  their  gos 
samer  edgings  had  truth  of  tone  and  color.  Then  the 
experimenter  came  to  the  purple  rim  of  mountain  tops. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       83 

There  was  no  color  for  that  on  the  palette,  and  he 
turned  to  the  paint-box. 

"Here,"  suggested  Lescott,  handing  him  a  tube  of 
Payne's  Gray :  "is  that  what  you're  looking  for  ?" 

Sams»n  read  the  label,  and  decisively  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  a-goin'  atter  them  hills,"  he  declared.  "There 
hain't  no  gray  in  them  thar  mountings."  f 

"Squeeze  seme  out,  anyway."  The  artist  suited  the 
action  to  the  word,  and  soon  Samson  was  experimenting 
with  a  mixture. 

"Why,  that  hain't  no  gray,"  he  announced,  with  en 
thusiasm;  "that  thar's  sort  of  ashy  purple."  Still,  he 
was  not  satisfied.  His  first  brush-stroke  showed  a  trifle 
dead  and  heavy.  It  lacked  the  soft  lucid  quality  that 
the  hills  held,  though  it  was  close  enough  to  truth  to 
have  satisfied  any  eye  save  one  of  uncompromising 
sincerity.  Samson,  even  though  he  was  hopelessly  daub 
ing,  and  knew  it,  was  sincere,  and  the  painter  at  his 
elbow  caught  his  breath,  and  looked  on  with  the  absorp 
tion  of  a  prophet,  who,  listening  to  childish  prattle,  yet 
recognizes  the  gift  of  prophecy.  The  boy  dabbled  for 
a  perplexed  moment  among  the  pigments,  then  lightened 
up  his  color  with  a  trace  of  ultramarine.  Uncon 
sciously,  the  master  heaved  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  The 
boy  "laid  in"  his  far  hills,  and  turned. 

"Thet's  the  way  hit  looks  ter  me/'  he  said,  simply. 

"That's  the  way  it  is,"  commended  his  critic. 

For  a  while  more,  Samson  worked  at  the  nearer  hills, 
then  he  rose. 

"I'm  dene,"  he  said.  "I  fcain't  a-goin'  ter  fool  with 
them  thar  trees  an'  thing's.  I  dont  know  nothing  erbout 
thet.  I  can't  paint  leaves  an'  twigs  an'  biretsnests. 


84       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

What  I  likes  is  mountings,  an*  skies,  an'  secht-like 
things." 

Lescott  looked  at  the  daub  before  him.  A  less- 
trained  eye  would  have  seen  only  the  daub,  just  as  a 
poor  judge  of  horse-flesh  might  see  only  awkward  joints 
and  long  legs  in  a  weanling  colt,  though  it  be  bred  in 
the  purple. 

"Samson,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "that's  all  there  is  to 
art.  It's  the  power  to  feel  the  poetry  of  color.  The 
rest  can  be  taught.  The  genius  must  work,  of  course — 
work,  work,  work,  and  still  work,  but  the  Gift  is  the 
power  of  seeing  true — and,  by  God,  boy,  you  have  it." 

His  words  rang  exultantly. 

"Anybody  with  eyes  kin  see,"  deprecated  Samson, 
wiping  his  fingers  on  his  jeans  trousers. 

"You  think  so?  To  the  seer  who  reads  the  passing 
shapes  in  a  globe  of  crystal,  it's  plain  enough.  To  any 
other  eye,  there  is  nothing  there  but  transparency." 
Lescott  halted,  conscious  that  he  was  falling  into  meta 
phor  which  his  companion  could  not  understand,  then 
more  quietly  he  went  on :  "I  don't  know  how  you  would 
progress,  Samson,  in  detail  and  technique,  but  I  know 
you've  got  what  many  men  have  struggled  a  lifetime 
for,  and  failed.  I'd  like  to  have  you  study  with  me. 
I'd  like  to  be  your  discoverer.  Look  here." 

The  painter  sat  down,  and  speedily  went  to  work.  He 
painted  out  nothing.  He  simply  toned,  and,  with  pre 
cisely  the  right  touch  here  and  there,  softened  the  crude- 
ness,  laid  stress  on  the  contrast,  melted  the  harshness, 
and,  when  he  rose,  he  had  built,  upon  the  rough  corner 
stone  of  Samson's  Ikying,  a  picture. 

"That  proves  it,"  he  said.     "I  had  only  to  finish.    I 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       85 

didn't  have  to  undo.     Boy,  you're  wasting  yourself. 

Come  with  me,  and  let  me  make  you.     We  all  pretend 

there  is  no  such  thing,  in  these  days,  as  sheer  genius ; 

but,  deep  down,  we  know  that,  unless  there  is,  there  can 

be  no  such  thing  as  true  art.    There  is  genius  and  you 

t'have  it."    Enthusiasm  was  again  sweeping  him  into  an 

f  unintended  outburst. 

The  boy  stood  silent.  Across  his  countenance  swept 
a  conflict  of  emotions.  He  looked  away,  as  if  taking 
counsel  with  the  hills. 

"It's  what  I'm  a-honin'  fer,"  he  admitted  at  last. 
"Hit's  what  I'd  give  half  my  life  fer.  ...  I  mout 
sell  my  land,  an'  raise  the  money.  ...  I  reckon  hit 
would  take  passels  of  money,  wouldn't  hit?"  He  paused, 
and  his  eyes  fell  on  the  rifle  leaning  against  the  tree. 
His  lips  tightened  in  sudden  remembrance.  He  went 
over  and  picked  up  the  gun,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he  shook 
his  head. 

"No,"  he  stolidly  declared;  "every  man  to  his  own 
tools.  This  here's  mine." 

Yet,  when  they  were  again  out  sketching,  the  tempta 
tion  to  play  with  brushes  once  more  seized  him,  and  he 
took  his  place  before  the  easel.  Neither  he  nor  Lescott 
noticed  a  man  who  crept  down  through  the  timber,  and 
for  a  time  watched  them.  The  man's  face  wore  a  surly, 
contemptuous  grin,  and  shortly  it  withdrew. 

But,  an  hour  later,  while  the  boy  was  still  working 
industriously  and  the  artist  was  lying  on  his  back,  with 
a  pipe  between  his  teeth,  and  his  half-closed  eyes  gazing 
up  contentedly  through  the  green  of  overhead  branches, 
their  peace  was  broken  by  a  guffaw  of  derisive  laughter. 
They  looked  up,  to  find  at  their  backs  a  semi-circle  of 


86       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

% 
scoffing  humanity.    Lescott's  impulse  was  to  laugh,  for 

only  the  comedy  of  the  situation  at  the  moment  struck 
him.  A  stage  director,  setting  a  comedy  scene  with  that 
most  ancient  of  jests,  the  gawking  of  boobs  at  seme 
new  sight,  could  hardly  have  improved  on  this  tableau. 
At  the  front  stood  Tamarack  Spicer,  the  returned 
wanderer.  His  lean  wrist  was  stretched  out  of  a  ragged 
sleeve  all  too  short,  and  his  tattered  "jimmy"  was  shoved 
back  over  a  face  all  a-grin.  His  eyes  were  blood-shot 
with  recent  drinking,  but  his  manner  was  in  exaggerated 
and  cumbersome  imitation  of  a  rural  master  of  cere 
monies.  At  his  back  were  the  raw-boned  men  and  women 
and  children  of  the  hills,  to  the  number  of  a  dozen.  To 
the  front  shuffled  an  old,  half-witted  hag,  with  thin  gray 
hair  and  pendulous  lower  lip.  Her  dress  was  patched 
and  colorless.  Her  back  was  bent  with  age  and 
rheumatism.  Her  feet  were  incased  in  a  pair  of  man's 
brogans.  She  stared  and  snickered,  and  several  chil 
dren,  taking  the  cue,  giggled,  but  the  men,  save 
Tamarack  himself,  wore  troubled  faces,  as  though 
recognizing  that  their  future  chieftain  had  been  dis 
covered  in  some  secret  shame.  They  were  looking  on 
their  idol's  feet  of  clay. 

"Ladies  and  gentle-m^w-,"  announced  Tamarack 
Spicer,  in  a  hiccoughy  voice,  "swing  yo'  partners  an' 
sashay  forward.  See  the  only  son  of  the  late  Henry 
South  engaged  in  his  mar-ve-lous  an'  heretofere  undis 
covered  occupation  of  doin'  fancy  work.  Ladies  and 
gentle-m<r»,  after  this  here  show  is  conclooded,  keep 
your  seats  for  the  concert  in  the  main  tent.  This  here 
famous  performer  will  favor  ye  with  a  little  exhibition 
of  plain  an*  fancy  sock-darnin'." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBEHLANDS       87 

The  children  snickered  again.  The  old  woman 
shuffled  forward. 

"Samson,"  she  quavered,  "I  didn't  never  'low  ter  see 
ye  doin'  no  sich  woman's  work  as  thet." 

After  the  first  surprise,  Samson  had  turned  his  back 
on  the  group.  He  was  mixing  paint  at  the  time  and 
he  proceeded  to  experiment  with  a  fleeting  cloud  effect, 
which  would  not  outlast  the  moment.  He  finished  that, 
and,  reaching  for  the  palette-knife,  scraped  his  fingers 
and  wiped  them  on  his  trousers'  legs.  Then,  he 
deliberately  rose. 

Without  a  word  he  turned.  Tamarack  had  begun 
his  harangue  afresh.  The  boy  tossed  back  the  long  lock 
from  his  forehead,  and  then,  with  an  unexpectedly  swift 
movement,  crouched  and  leaped.  His  right  fist  shot  for 
ward  to  Tamarack  Spicer's  chattering  lips,  and  they 
abruptly  ceased  to  chatter  as  the  teeth  were  driven  into 
their  flesh.  Spicer's  head  snapped  back,  and  he  stag 
gered  against  the  onlookers,  where  he  stood  rocking 
on  his  unsteady  legs.  His  hand  swept  instinctively  to 
the  shirt-concealed  holster,  but,  before  it  had  connected, 
both  «f  Samson's  fists  were  playing  a  terrific  tattoo  en 
iiis  face.  The  inglorious  master  of  the  show  dropped, 
and  lay  grcggily  trying  to  rise. 

The  laughter  died  as  suddenly  as  Tamarack's  speech. 
Samson  stepped  back  again,  and  searched  the  faces  of 
the  group  for  any  lingering  sign  of  mirth  or  criticism. 
There  was  none.  Every  countenance  was  sober  and 
expressionless,  but  the  boy  felt  a  weight  of  unuttered 
disapproval,  and  he  glared  defiance.  One  of  the  older 
onlookers  spoke  up  reproachfully. 


88       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Samson,  ye  hadn't  hardly  ought  ter  a-done  that. 
He  was  jest  a  funnin'  with  ye." 

"Git  him  up  on  his  feet.  I've  got  somethin'  ter  say 
ter  him."  The  boy's  voice  was  dangerously  quiet.  It 
was  his  first  word.  They  lifted  the  fallen  cousin,  whose 
entertainment  had  gone  astray,  and  led  him  forward 
grumbling,  threatening  and  sputtering,  but  evincing  no 
immediate  desire  to  renew  hostilities. 

"Whar  hev  ye  been?"  demanded  Samson. 

"Thet's  my  business,"  came  the  familiar  mountain 
phrase. 

"Why  wasn't  yer  hyar  when  them  dawgs  come  by? 
Why  was  ye  the  only  South  thet  runned  away,  when 
they  was  smellin*  round  f er  Jesse  Purvy's  assassin  ?" 

"I  didn't  run  away."  Tamarack's  blood-shot  eyes 
flared  wickedly.  "I  knowed  thet  ef  I  stayed  'round 
hyar  with  them  damned  Hollmans  stickin'  their  noses 
inter  our  business,  I'd  hurt  somebody.  So,  I  went  over 
inter  the  next  county  fer  a  spell.  You  fellers  mout  be 
able  to  take  things  offen  the  Hollmans,  but  I  hain't." 

"Thet's  a  damned  lie,"  said  Samson,  quietly.  "Ye 
runned  away,  an'  ye  runned  in  the  water  so  them  dawgs 
couldn't  trail  ye — ye  done  hit  because  ye  shot  them 
shoots  at  Jesse  Purvy  from  the  laurel — because  ye're 
a  truce-bustin',  murderin'  bully  thet  shoots  off  his  face, 
an*  is  skeered  to  fight."  Samson  paused  for  breath, 
and  went  on  with  regained  calmness.  "I've  knowed  all 
along  ye  was  the  man,  an'  I've  kept  quiet  because  ye're 
my  kin.  If  ye've  got  anything  else  ter  say,  say  hit. 
But,  ef  I  ever  ketches  yer  talkin'  about  me,  or  talkin* 
ter  Sally,  I'm  a-goin'  ter  take  ye  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck,  an'  drag  ye  plumb  inter  Hixon,  an'  stick  ye  in 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       89 

the  j  ail-house.  An'  I'm  a-goin'  ter  tell  the  High  Sheriff 
that  the  Souths  spits  ye  outen  their  mouths.  Take  him 
away."  The  crowd  turned  and  left  the  place.  When 
they  were  gone,  Samson  seated  himself  at  his  easel  again, 

and  picked  up  his  palette. 
* 


CHAPTER  IX 

LESCOTT  had  come  to  the  mountains  anticipating! 
a  visit  of  two  weeks.  His  accident  had  resolved 
him  to  shorten  it  to  the  nearest  day  upon  which 
he  felt  capable  of  making  the  trip  out  to  the  railroad. 
Yet,  June  had  ended;  July  had  burned  the  slopes  from 
emerald  to  russet-green;  August  had  brought  purple 
tops  to  the  ironweed,  and  still  he  found  himself  linger 
ing.  And  this  was  true  although  he  recognized  a  grow 
ing  sentiment  of  disapproval  for  himself.  He  knew 
indubitably  that  he  stood  charged  with  the  offense  for 
which  Socrates  was  invited  to  drink  the  hemlock:  "cor 
rupting  the  morals  of  the  youth,  and  teaching  strange 
gods."  Feeling  the  virtue  of  his  teaching,  he  was 
unwilling  as  Socrates  to  abandon  the  field.  In  Sam 
son  he  thought  he  recognized  twin  gifts :  a  spark  of  a 
genius  too  rare  to  be  allowed  to  flicker  out,  and  a 
potentiality  for  constructive  work  among  his  own 
people,  which  needed  for  its  perfecting  only  education 
and  experience.  Having  aroused  a  soul's  restiveness  in 
the  boy,  he  felt  a  direct  responsibility  for  it  and  him, 
to  which  he  added  a  deep  personal  regard.  Though  the 
kinsmen  looked  upon  him  as  an  undesirable  citizen, 
bringing  teachings  which  they  despised,  the  hospitality 
of  old  Spicer  South  continued  unbroken  and  a  guarantee 
of  security  on  Misery. 

"Samson,"   he  suggested  one  day  when  they  were 

90 


alone,  "I  want  you  to  come  East.  You  say  that  gun 
is  your  tool,  and  that  each  man  must  stick  to  his  own. 
You  are  in  part  right,  in  part  wrong.  A  man  uses  any 
tool  better  for  understanding  other  tools.  You  have 
the  right  to  use  your  brains  and  talents  to  the  full." 

The  boy's  face  was  somber  in  the  intensity  of  his 
| mental  struggle,  and  his  answer  had  that  sullen  ring 
which  was  not  really  sullenness  at  all,  but  self-repression. 

"I  reckon  a  feller's  biggest  right  is  to  stand  by  his 
kinfolks.  Unc'  Spicer's  gittin'  old.  He's  done  been 
good  ter  me.  He  needs  me  here." 

"I  appreciate  that.  He  will  be  older  later.  You  can 
go  now,  and  come  back  to  him  when  he  needs  you  more. 
If  what  I  urged  meant  disloyalty  to  your  people,  I 
would  cut  out  my  tongue  before  I  argued  for  it.  You 
must  believe  me  in  that.  I  want  you  to  be  in  the  fullest 
sense  your  people's  leader.  I  want  you  to  be  not  only 
their  Samson — but  their  Moses." 

The  boy  looked  up  and  nodded.  The  mountaineer  is 
not  given  to  demonstration.  He  rarely  shakes  hands, 
and  he  does  not  indulge  in  superlatives  of  affection.  He 
loved  and  admired  this  man  from  the  outside  world, 
who  seemed  to  him  to  epitomize  wisdom,  but*  his  code 
did  not  permit  him  to  say  so. 

i  "I  reckon  ye  aims  ter  be  friendly,  all  right,"  was  his 
conservative  response. 

The  painter  went  on  earnestly: 

"I  realize  that  I  am  urging  things  of  which  your 
people  disapprove,  but  it  is  only  because  they  misunder 
stand  that  they  do  disapprove.  They  are  toe  close, 
Samson,  to  see  the  purple  that  mountains  have  when 
they  are  far  away.  I  want  you  te  go  where  you  can  see 


92       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

the  purple.  If  you  are  the  sort  of  man  I  think,  you 
won't  be  beguiled.  You  won't  lose  your  loyalty.  You 
won't  be  ashamed  of  your  people." 

"I  reckon  I  wouldn't  be  ashamed,"  said  the  youth. 
"I  reckon  there  hain't  no  better  folks  nowhar." 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  There  are  going  to  be  sweeping 
changes  in  these  mountains.  Conditions  here  have  stood 
as  immutably  changeless  as  the  hills  themselves  for  a 
hundred  years.  That  day  is  at  its  twilight.  I  tell  you, 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  The  State  of  Ken 
tucky  is  looking  this  way.  The  State  must  develop, 
and  it  is  here  alone  that  it  can  develop.  In  the  Blue- 
grass,  the  possibilities  for  change  are  exhausted.  Their 
fields  lie  fallow,  their  woodlands  are  being  stripped. 
Tobacco  has  tainted  the  land.  It  has  shouldered  out 
the  timber,  and  is  turning  forest  to  prairie.  A  land  of 
fertile  loam  is  vying  with  cheap  soil  that  can  send 
almost  equal  crops  to  market.  There  is  no  more  timber 
to  be  cut,  and  when  the  timber  goes  the  climate  changes. 
In  these  hills  lie  the  sleeping  sources  of  wealth.  Here 
are  virgin  forests  and  almost  inexhaustible  coal  veins. 
Capital  is  turning  from  an  orange  squeezed  dry,  and 
casting  about  for  fresher  food.  Capital  has  seen  your 
hills.  Capital  is  inevitable,  relentless,  omnipotent. 
Where  it  comes,  it  makes  its  laws.  Conditions  that  have 
existed  undisturbed  will  vanish.  The  law  of  the  feud, 
which  militia  and  courts  have  not  been  able  to  abate, 
will  vanish  before  Capital's  breath  like  the  mists  when 
the  sun  strikes  them.  Unless  you  learn  to  ride  the 
waves  which  will  presently  sweep  over  your  country, 
you  and  your  people  will  go  under.  You  may  not 
realize  it,  but  that  is  true.  It  is  written." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       93 

The  boy  had  listened  intently,  but  at  the  end  he 
smiled,  and  in  his  expression  was  something  of  the 
soldier  who  scents  battle,  not  without  welcome. 

"I  reckon  if  these  here  fellers  air  a-comin'  up  here  ter 
run  things,  an'  drownd  out  my  folks,  hit's  a  right  good 
reason  fer  me  ter  stay  here — an'  holp  my  folks." 

"By  staying  here,  you  can't  help  them.  It  won't  be> 
work  for  guns,  but  for  brains.  By  going  away  and 
coming  back  armed  with  knowledge,  you  can  save  them. 
You  will  knoAV  how  to  play  the  game." 

"I  reckon  they  won't  git  our  land,  ner  our  timber, 
ner  our  coal,  without  we  wants  ter  sell  hit.  I  reckon  ef 
Ihey  tries  thet,  guns  will  come  in  handy.  Things  has 
stood  here  like  they  is  now,  fer  a  hundred  years.  I 
reckon  we  kin  keep  'em  that-away  fer  a  spell  longer." 
But  it  was  evident  that  Samson  was  arguing  against  his 
own  belief ;  that  he  was  trying  to  bolster  up  his  resolu 
tion  and  impeached  loyalty,  and  that  at  heart  he  was 
sick  to  be  up  and  going  to  a  world  which  did  not  despise 
"eddication."  After  a  little,  he  waved  his  hand  vaguely 
toward  "down  below." 

"Ef  I  went  down  thar,"  he  questioned  suddenly  and 
irrelevantly,  "would  I  hev'  ter  cut  my  ha'r  ?" 

"My  dear  boy,"  laughed  Lescott,  "I  can  introduce 
you  in  New  York  studios  to  many  distinguished  gentle-j 
men  who  would  feel  that  their  heads  had  been  shorn  if 
they  let  their  locks  get  as  short  as  yours.  In  New 
York,  you  might  stroll  along  Broadway  garbed  in  tur 
ban  and  a  burnouse  without  greatly  exciting  anybody. 
I  think  my  own  hair  is  as  long  as  yours." 

"Because,"  doggedly  declared  the  mountaineer,  "I 
wouldn't  allow  nobody  ter  make  me  cut  my  ha'r." 


94       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Why?"  questioned  Lescott,  amused  at  the  stubborn 
inflection. 

"I  don't  hardly  know  why — "  He  paused,  then  ad 
mitted  with  a  glare  as  though  defying  criticism :  "Sally 
likes  hit  that-away — an'  I  won't  let  nobody  dictate  ter 
me,  that's  all." 

The  leaven  was  working,  and  one  night  Samson 
announced  to  his  Uncle  from  the  doorstep  that  he  was 
"studyin*  erbout  goin'  away  fer  a  spell,  an'  seein'  the 
world." 

The  old  man  laid  down  his  pipe.  He  cast  a  reproach 
ful  glance  at  the  painter,  which  said  cltarly,  though 
without  words: 

"I  have  opened  my  home  to  you  and  offered  you  what 
I  had,  yet  in  my  old  age  you  take  away  my  mainstay." 
For  a  time,  he  sat  silent,  but  his  shoulders  hunched  for 
ward  with  a  sag  which  they  had  not  held  a  moment 
before.  His  seamed  face  appeared  to  age  visibly  and 
in  the  moment.  He  ran  one  bony  hand  through  his  gray 
mane  of  hair. 

"I  'lowed  you  was  a-studyin'  erbout  thet,  Samson," 
he  said,  at  last.  "I've  done  ther  best  fer  ye  I  knowed. 
I  kinder  'lowed  thet  from  now  on  ye'd  do  the  same  fer 
me.  I'm  gittin'  along  in  years  right  smart.  .  .  ." 
*  "Uncle  Spicer,"  interrupted  the  boy,  "I  reckon  ye 
knows  thet  any  time  ye  needed  me  I'd  come  back." 

The  old  man's  face  hardened. 

"Ef  ye  goes,"  he  said,  almost  sharply,  "I  won't  never 
send  fer  ye.  Any  time  ye  ever  wants  ter  come  back,  ye 
knows  ther  way.  Thar'll  be  room  an'  victuals  fer  ye 
hyar." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       9* 

"I  reckon  I  mout  be  a  heap  more  useful  ef  I  knowed 
more." 

"I've  heered  fellers  say  that  afore.  Hit  hain't  never 
turned  out  thet  way  with  them  what  has  left  the  mount 
ings.  Mebby  they  gets  more  useful,  but  they  don't  git 
useful  ter  us.  Either  they  don't  come  back  at  all,  or 
mebby  they  comes  back  full  of  newfangled  notions — an' 
ashamed  of  their  kinfolks.  Thet's  the  way,  I've  noticed, 
hit  gen'ally  turns  out." 

Samson  scorned  to  deny  that  such  might  be  the  case 
with  him,  and  was  silent.  After  a  time,  the  old  man 
went  on  again  in  a  weary  voice,  as  he  bent  down  to 
loosen  his  brogans  and  kick  them  noisily  off  on  to  the 
floor: 

"The  Souths  hev  done  looked  to  ye  a  good  deal,  Sam 
son.  They  'lowed  they  could  depend  on  ye.  Ye  hain't 
quite  twenty-one  yet,  an'  I  reckon  I  could  refuse  ter  let 
ye  sell  yer  prop'ty.  But  thar  hain't  no  uso  tryin'  ter 
hold  a  feller  when  he  wants  ter  quit.  Ye  don't  'low  ter 
go  right  away,  do  ye?" 

"I  hain't  plumb  made  up  my  mind  ter  go  at  all,"  said 
the  boy,  shamefacedly.  "But,  ef  I  does  go,  I  hain't 
a-goin'  yit.  I  hain't  spoke  ter  nobody  but  you  about 
hit  yit." 

Lescott  felt  reluctant  to  meet  his  host's  eyes  at  break 
fast  the  next  morning,  dreading  their  reproach,  but, 
if  Spicer  South  harbored  resentment,  he  meant  to  con 
ceal  it,  after  the  stoic's  code.  There  was  no  hinted 
constraint  of  cordiality.  Lescott  felt,  however,  that  in 
Samson's  mind  was  working  the  leaven  of  that  unspoken 
accusation  of  disloyalty.  He  resolved  to  make  a  final 
play,  and  seek  to  enlist  Sally  in  his  cause.  If  Sally's 


96      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

hero-worship  could  be  made  to  take  the  form  of  ambi 
tion  for  Samson,  she  might  be  brought  to  relinquish 
him  for  a  time,  and  urge  his  going  that  he  might 
return  strengthened.  Yet,  Sally's  devotion  was  so 
instinctive  and  so  artless  that  it  would  take  compelling 
argument  to  convince  her  of  any  need  of  change.  It 
was  Samson  as  he  was  whom  she  adored.  Any  altera 
tion  was  to  be  distrusted.  Still,  Lescott  set  out  one 
afternoon  on  his  doubtful  mission.  He  was  more 
versed  in  mountain  ways  than  he  had  been.  His  own 
ears  could  now  distinguish  between  the  bell  that  hung 
at  the  neck  of  Sally's  brindle  heifer  and  those  of  old 
Spicer's  cows.  He  went  down  to  the  creek  at  the  hour 
when  he  knew  Sally,  also,  would  be  making  her  way 
thither  with  her  milk-pail,  and  intercepted  her  coming. 
As  she  approached,  she  was  singing,  and  the  man 
watched  her  from  the  distance.  He  was  a  landscape 
painter  and  not  a  master  of  genre  or  portrait.  Yet, 
he  wished  that  he  might,  before  going,  paint  Sally. 
She  was  really,  after  all,  a  part  of  the  landscape,  as 
much  a  thing  of  nature  and  the  hills  as  the  hollyhocks 
that  had  come  along  the  picket-fences.  She  swayed 
as  gracefully  and  thoughtlessly  to  her  movements  as 
do  strong  and  pliant  stems  under  the  breeze's  kiss. 
'Artfulness  she  had  not;  nor  has  the  flower:  only  the 
joy  and  fragrance  of  a  brief  bloom.  It  was  that 
thought  which  just  now  struck  the  painter  most 
forcibly.  It  was  shameful  that  this  girl  and  boy  should 
go  on  to  the  hard  and  unlighted  life  that  inevitably 
awaited  them,  if  neither  had  the  opportunity  of  develop 
ment.  She  would  be  at  forty  a  later  edition  of  the 
Widow  Miller.  He  had  seen  the  widow.  Sally's  charm 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS       97 

/mist  be  as  ephemeral  under  the  life  of  illiterate 
drudgery  and  perennial  child-bearing  as  her  mother's 
had  been.  Her  shoulders,  now  so  gloriously  straight 
and  strong,  would  sag,  and  her  bosom  shrink,  and  her 
face  harden  and  take  on  that  drawn  misery  of  constant 
anxiety.  But,  if  Samson  went  and  came  back  with 
some  conception  of  cherishing  his  wife — yes,  the  effort 
was  worth  making.  Yet,  as  the  girl  came  down  the 
slope,  gaily  singing  a  very  melancholy  song,  the  painter 
broke  off  in  his  reflections,  and  his  thoughts  veered. 
If  Samson  left,  would  he  ever  return?  Might  not  the 
old  man  after  all  be  right?  When  he  had  seen  other 
women  and  tasted  other  allurements  would  he,  like 
Ulysses,  still  hold  his  barren  Ithaca  above  the  gilded 
invitation  of  Calypso?  History  has  only  one  Ulysses. 
Sally's  voice  was  lilting  like  a  bird's  as  she  walked 
happMy.  The  song  was  one  of  those  old  ballads  that 
have  been  held  intact  since  the  stock  learned  to  sing  them 
in  the  heather  of  the  Scotch  highlands  before  there  was 
an  America. 

"  'She's  pizened  me,  mother,  make  my  bed  soon, 

Fer  I'm  sick  at  my  heart  and  I  fain  would  lay  doon.5 ' 

i 

The  man  rose  and  went  to  meet  her. 

"Miss  Sally,"  he  began,  uncertainly,  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

She  was  always  very  grave  and  diffident  with  Lescott. 
He  was  a  strange  new  type  to  her,  and,  though  she 
liad  begun  with  a  predilection  in  his  favor,  she  had  since 
then  come  to  hold  him  in  adverse  prejudice.  Before  his 
arrival,  Samson  had  been  all  hers.  She  had  not  missed 


98       THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

in  her  lover  the  gallantries  that  she  and  her  women 
had  never  known.  At  evening,  when  the  supper  dishes 
were  washed  and  she  sat  in  the  honeysuckle  fragrance 
of  the  young  night  with  the  whippoorwills  calling,  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  hear  a  particular  whippoorwill- 
note  call,  much  like  the  real  ones,  yet  distinct  to  her 
waiting  ears.  She  was  wont  to  rise  and  go  to  the  stile 
to  meet  him.  She  had  known  that  every  day  she  would, 
seemingly  by  chance,  meet  Samson  somewhere  along  the 
creek,  or  on  the  big  bowlder  at  the  rift,  or  hoeing  on 
the  sloping  cornfield.  These  things  had  been  enough. 
But,  of  late,  his  interests  had  been  divided.  This 
painter  had  claimed  many  of  his  hours  and  many  of 
his  thoughts.  There  was  in  her  heart  an  unconfessed 
jealousy  of  the  foreigner.  Now,  she  scrutinized  him 
solemnly,  and  nodded. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  invited,  and  the  girl 
dropped  cross-legged  on  a  mossy  rock,  and  waited. 
To-day,  she  wore  a  blue  print  dress,  instead  of  the  red 
one.  It  was  always  a  matter  of  amazement  to  the  man 
that  in  such  an  environment  she  was  not  only  wildly 
beautiful,  but  invariably  the  pink  of  neatness.  She 
could  climb  a  tree  or  a  mountain,  or  emerge  from  a 
sweltering  blackberry  patch,  seemingly  as  fresh  and 
unruffled  as  she  had  been  at  the  start.  The  man  stood 
uncomfortably  looking  at  her,  and  was  momentarily  at 
a  loss  for  words  with  which  to  commence. 

"What  was  ye  a-goin'  ter  tell  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"Miss  Sally,"  he  began,  "I've  discovered  something 
about  Samson." 

Her  blue  eyes  flashed  ominously. 


"Ye  can't  tell  me  nothin'  'bout  Samson,"  she  declared, 
*'withouten  hit's  somethin*  nice." 

"It's  something  very  nice,"  the  man  reassured  her. 

"Then,  ye  needn't  tell  me,  because  I  already  knows 
hit,"  came  her  prompt  and  confident  announcement. 

Lescott  shook  his  head,  dubiously. 

"Samson  is  a  genius,"  he  said. 

"What's  thet?" 

"He  has  great  gifts — great  abilities  to  become  a 
figure  in  the  world." 

She  nodded  her  head,  in  prompt  and  full  corrob- 
oration. 

"I  reckon  Samson'll  be  the  biggest  man  in  the  mount 
ings  some  day." 

"He  ought  to  be  more  than  that." 

Suspicion  at  once  cast  a  cloud  across  the  violet 
serenity  of  her  eyes. 

"What  does  ye  mean  ?"  she  demanded. 

"I  mean" — the  painter  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
said  bluntly — "I  mean  that  I  want  to  take  him  back 
with  me  to  New  York." 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet  with  her  chin  defiantly 
high  and  her  brown  hands  clenched  into  tight  little 
fists.  Her  bosom  heaved  convulsively,  and  her  eyes 
blazed  through  tears  of  anger.  Her  face  was  pale. 

"Ye  hain't!"  she  cried,  in  a  paroxysm  of  fear  and 
wrath.  "Ye  hain't  a-goin'  ter  do  no  sich — no  sich  of 
a  damn  thing!"  She  stamped  her  foot,  and  her  whole 
girlish  body,  drawn  into  rigid  uprightness,  was  a-quiver 
with  the  incarnate  spirit  of  the  woman  defending  her 
home  and  institutions.  For  a  moment  after  that,  she 
could  not  speak,  but  her  determined  eyes  blazed  a 


declaration  of  war.  It  was  as  though  he  had  posed  her 
as  the  Spirit  of  the  Cumberlands. 

He  waited  until  she  should  be  calmer.  It  was  use 
less  to  attempt  stemming  her  momentary  torrent  of 
rage.  It  was  like  one  of  the  sudden  and  magnificent 
tempests  that  often  swept  these  hills,  a  brief  visit  of 
the  furies.  One  must  seek  shelter  and  wait.  It  would 
end  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  At  last,  he  spoke,  very 
softly. 

"You  don't  understand  me,  Miss  Sally.  I'm  not  try 
ing  to  take  Samson  away  from  you.  If  a  man  should 
lose  a  girl  like  you,  he  couldn't  gain  enough  in  the 
world  to  make  up  for  it.  All  I  want  is  that  he  shall 
have  the  chance  to  make  the  best  of  his  life." 

"I  reckon  Samson  don't  need  no  fotched-on  help  ter 
make  folks  acknowledge  him." 

"Every  man  needs  his  chance.  He  can  be  a  great 
painter — but  that's  the  least  part  of  it.  He  can  come 
back  equipped  for  anything  that  life  offers.  Here,  he  is 
wasted." 

"Ye  mean" — she  put  the  question  with  a  Kurt  quaver 
in  her  voice — "ye  mean  we  all  hain't  good  enough  fer 
Samson  ?" 

"No.  I  only  mean  that  Samson  wants  to  grow — and 
he  needs  space  and  new  scenes  in  which  to  grow.  I  want 
to  take  him  where  he  can  see  more  of  the  world — not 
only  a  little  section  of  the  world.  Surely,  you  are  not 
distrustful  of  Samson's  loyalty?  I  want  him  to  go  with 
me  for  a  while,  and  see  life." 

"Don't  ye  say  hit!"  The  defiance  in  her  voice  was 
being  pathetically  tangled  up  with  the  tears.  She  was 
speaking  in  a  transport  of  grief.  "Don't  ye  say  hit. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     101 

Take  anybody  else — take  'em  all  down  thar,  but  leave 
us  Samson.  We  needs  him  hyar.  We've  jest  got  ter 
have  Samson  hyar." 

She  faced  him  still  with  quivering  lips,  but  in  another 
moment,  with  a  sudden  sob,  she  dropped  to  the  rock, 
rand  buried  her  face  in  her  crossed  arms.  Her  slender 
body  shook  under  a  harrowing  convulsion  of  unhappi- 
ness.  Lescott  felt  as  though  he  had  struck  her;  as 
though  he  had  ruthlessly  blighted  the  irresponsible  joy- 
ousness  which  had  a  few  minutes  before  sung  from  her 
lips  with  the  blitheness  of  a  mocking-bird.  He  went 
over  and  softly  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Miss  Sally — "  he  began. 

She  suddenly  turned  on  him  a  tear-stained,  infuriated 
face,  stormy  with  blazing  eyes  and  wet  cheeks  and 
trembling  lips. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  she  cried ;  "don't  ye  dare  ter  touch 
me!  I  hain't  nothin'  but  a  gal — but  I  reckon  I  could 
'most  tear  ye  ter  pieces.  Ye're  jest  a  pizen  snake,  any 
how  !"  Then,  she  pointed  a  tremulous  finger  off  up  the 
road.  "Git  away  from  hyar,"  she  commanded.  "I  don't 
never  want  ter  see  ye  again.  Ye're  tryin'  ter  steal 
everything  I  loves.  Git  away,  I  tells  ye ! — git  away — 
begone !" 

"Think  it  over,"  urged  Lescott,  'quietly.  "See  if  your 
'heart  doesn't  say  I  am  Samson's  friend — and  yours." 
He  turned,  and  began  making  his  way  over  the  rocks; 
but,  before  he  had  gone  far,  he  sat  down  to  reflect  upon 
the  situation.  *  Certainly,  he  was  not  augmenting  his 
popularity.  A  half-hour  later,  he  heard  a  rustle,  ands 
turning,  saw  Sally  standing  not  far  off.  She  was  hesi 
tating  at  the  edge  of  the  underbrush,  and  Lescott  read 


102     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

in  her  eyes  the  effort  it  was  costing  her  to  come  forward 
and  apologize.  Her  cheeks  were  still  pale  and  her  eyes 
wet,  but  the  tempest  of  her  anger  had  spent  itself,  and 
in  the  girl  who  stood  penitently,  one  hand  nervously 
clutching  a  branch  of  rhododendron,  one  foot  twisting 
in  the  moss,  Lescott  was  seeing  an  altogether  new  Sally. 
There  was  a  renunciation  in  her  eyes  that  in  contrast 
with  the  child-like  curve  of  her  lips,  and  slim  girlishness 
of  her  figure,  seemed  entirely  pathetic. 

As  she  stood  there,  trying  to  come  forward  with  a 
pitiful  effort  at  composure  and  a  twisted  smile,  Lescott 
wanted  to  go  and  meet  her.  But  he  knew  her  shyness, 
and  realized  that  the  kindest  thing  would  be  to  pretend 
that  he  had  not  seen  her  at  all.  So,  he  covertly  watched 
her,  while  he  assumed  to  sit  in  moody  unconsciousness  of 
her  nearness. 

Little  by  little,  and  step  by  step,  she  edged  over  to 
him,  halting  often  and  looking  about  with  the  impulse 
to  slip  out  of  sight,  but  always  bracing  herself  and 
drawing  a  little  nearer.  Finally,  he  knew  that  she 
was  standing  almost  directly  over  him,  and  yet  it  was 
a  moment  or  two  more  before  her  voice,  sweetly  penitent, 
announced  her  arrival. 

"I  reckon — I  reckon  I've  got  ter  ask  yore  pardon," 
she  said,  slowly  and  with  labored  utterance.    He  looked, 
up  to  see  her  standing  with  her  head  drooping  and  her 
fingers  nervousJy  pulling  a  flower  to  pieces. 

"I  reckon  I  hain't  a  plumb  fool.  I  knows  thet  Sam 
son's  got  a  right  ter  eddication.  Anyhow,  I  knows  he 
wants  hit." 

"Education,"  said  the  man,  "isn't  going  to  change 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     103 

Samson,  except  to  make  him  finer  than  he  is — and  more 
capable." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  hain't  got  no  eddication," 
she  answered.  "Hit's  a-goin'  ter  make  him  too  good  fer 
me.  I  reckon  hit's  a-goin'  ter  jest  about  kill  me.  .  .  . 
4Ye  hain't  never  seed  these  here  mountings  in  the  winter 
time,  when  thar  hain't  nothin'  green,  an'  thar  hain't  no 
birds  a-singin',  an'  thar  hain't  nothin'  but  rain  an'  snow 
an'  fog  an'  misery.  They're  a-goin'  ter  be  like  thet  all 
the  time  fer  me,  atter  Samson's  gone  away."  She 
choked  back  something  like  a  sob  before  she  went  on. 
"Yes,  stranger,  hit's  a-goin'  ter  pretty  nigh  kill  me, 
but — "  Her  lips  twisted  themselves  into  the  pathetic 
smile  again,  and  her  chin  came  stiffly  up.  "But,"  she 
added,  determinedly,  "thet  don't  make  no  diff'rence, 
nohow." 


CHAPTER  X 

YET,  when  Samson  that  evening  gave  his  whippoor- 
will  call  at  the  Widow  Miller's  cabin,  he  found 
a  dejected  and  miserable  girl  sitting  on  the  stile, 
with  her  chin  propped  in  her  two  hands  and  her  eyes 
full  of  somberness  and  foreboding. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sally  ?"  questioned  he,  anxiously. 
"Hes  that  low-down  Tamarack  Spicer  been  round  here 
tellin'  ye  some  more  stories  ter  pester  ye?'* 

She  shook  her  head  in  silence.  Usually,  she  bore  the 
brunt  of  their  conversations,  Samson  merely  agreeing 
with,  or  overruling,  her  in  lordly  brevities.  The  boy 
climbed  up  and  sat  beside  her. 

"Thar's  a-goin'  ter  be  a  dancin'  party  over  ter  Wile 
McCager's  mill  come  Saturday,"  he  insinuatingly  sug 
gested.  "I  reckon  ye'll  go  over  thar  with  me,  won't  ye, 
Sally?" 

He  waited  for  her  usua/  delighted  assent,  but  Sally 
only  told  him  absently  and  without  enthusiasm  that  she 
would  "study  about  it."  At  last,  however,  her  restraint 
broke,  and,  looking  up,  she  abruptly  demanded: 

"Air  ye  a-goin'  away,  Samson?" 

"Who's  been  a-talkin'  ter  ye?"  demanded  the  boy, 
angrily. 

For  a  moment,  the  girl  sat  silent.  Silver  mists  were 
softening  under  a  rising  moon.  The  katydids  were 
prophesying  with  strident  music  the  six  weeks'  warning 

104 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     105 

of  frost.  Myriads  of  stars  were  soft  and  low-hanging. 
Finally,  she  spoke  in  a  grave  voice: 

"Hit  hain't  nothin'  ter  git  mad  about,  Samson.  The 
artist  man  'lowed  as  how  ye  had  a  right  ter  go  down 
thar,  an'  git  an  eddication."  She  made  a  weary  gesture 
toward  the  great  beyond. 

"He  hadn't  ought  to  of  told  ye,  Sally.  If  I'd  been 
plumb  sartin  in  my  mind,  I'd  a-told  ye  myself — not 
but  what  I  knows,"  he  hastily  amended,  "thet  he  meant 
hit  friendly." 

"Air  ye  a-goin'?" 

"I'm  studyin'  about  hit." 

He  awaited  objection,  but  none  came.  Then,  with  a 
piquing  of  his  masculine  vanity,  he  demanded: 

"Hain't  ye  a-keerin',  Sally,  whether  I  goes,  or  not?" 

The  girl  grew  rigid.  Her  fingers  on  the  crum 
bling  plank  of  the  stile's  top  tightened  and  gripped 
hard.  The  moonlit  landscape  seemed  to  whirl  in  a  dizzy 
circle.  Her  face  did  not  betray  her,  nor  her  voice, 
though  she  had  to  gulp  down  a  rising  lump  in  her 
throat  before  she  could  answer  calmly. 

"I  thinks  ye  had  ought  ter  go,  Samson." 

The  boy  was  astonished.  He  had  avoided  the  subject 
for  fear  of  her  opposition — and  tears. 

Then,  slowly,  she  went  on  as  though  repeating  a  les 
ion  painstakingly  conned: 

"There  hain't  nothin'  in  these  here  hills  fer  ye,  Sam 
son.  Down  thar,  ye'll  see  lots  of  things  thet's  new — 
an'  civilized  an'  beautiful!  Ye'll  see  lots  of  gals  thet 
kin  read  an'  write,  gals  dressed  up  in  all  kinds  of  fancy 
frxin's."  Her  glib  words  ran  out  and  ended  in  a  sort  of 
inward  gasp. 


106     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Compliment  came  hardly  and  awkwardly  to  Samson's 
lips.  He  reached  for  the  girl's  hand,  and  whispered : 

"I  reckon  I  won't  see  no  gals  thet's  as  purty  as  you 
be,  Sally.  I  reckon  ye  knows,  whether  I  goes  or  stays, 
we're  a-goin5  ter  git  married." 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  and  laughed,  a  little  bit 
terly.  In  the  last  day,  she  had  ceased  to  be  a  child,  and 
become  a  woman  with  all  the  soul-aching  possibilities  of 
a  woman's  intuitions. 

"Samson,"  she  said,  "I  hain't  askin'  ye  ter  make  me 
no  promises.  When  ye  sees  them  other  gals — gals  thet 
kin  read  an'  write — I  reckon  mebby  ye'll  think  diff'rent. 
I  can't  hardly  spell  out  printin'  in  the  fust  reader." 

Her  lover's  voice  was  scornful  of  the  imagined  dan 
gers,  as  a  recruit  may  be  of  the  battle  terrors — before 
he  has  been  under  fire.  He  slipped  his  arm  about  her 
and  drew  her  over  to  him. 

"Honey,"  he  said,  "ye  needn't  fret  about  thet. 
Readin'  an'  writin'  can't  make  no  difference  fer  a 
woman.  Hit's  mighty  important  fer  a  man,  but  you're 
a  gal." 

"You're  a-goin'  ter  think  diff'rent  atter  awhile,"  she 
insisted.  "When  ye  goes,  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  be  ex- 
pectin'  ye  ter  come  back  .  .  .  But" — the  resolution 
in  her  voice  for  a  moment  quavered  as  she  added — "but 
God  knows  I'm  a-goin'  ter  be  hopin' !" 

"Sally !"  The  boy  rose,  and  paced  up  and  down  in 
the  road.  "Air  ye  goin'  ter  be  ag'inst  me,  too?  Don't 
ye  see  that  I  wants  ter  have  a  chanst?  Can't  ye  trust 
me?  I'm  jest  a-tryin'  to  amount  to  something.  I'm 
plumb  tired  of  bein'  ornery  an'  no  'count." 

She  nodded. 


"I've  done  told  ye,"  she  said,  wearily,  "thet  I  thinks 
ye  ought  ter  do  hit." 

He  stood  there  in  the  road  looking  down  at  her  and 
the  twisted  smile  that  lifted  only  one  corner  of  her 
lips,  while  the  other  drooped.  The  moonlight  caught 
her  eyes ;  eyes  that  were  trying,  like  the  lips,  to  smile, 
but  that  were  really  looking  away  into  the  future,  which 
she  saw  stripped  of  companionship  and  love,  and  gray 
with  the  ashiness  of  wretched  desolation.  And,  while 
he  was  seeing  the  light  of  the  simulated  cheeriness  die 
out  in  her  face,  she  was  seeing  the  strange,  exalted  glow, 
of  which  she  was  more  than  half-afraid,  kindle  in  his 
pupils.  It  was  as  though  she  were  giving  up  the  living 
fire  out  of  her  own  heart  to  set  ablaze  the  ambition  and 
anticipation  in  his  own. 

That  glow  in  Samson's  eyes  she  feared  and  shrank 
from,  as  she  might  have  flinched  before  the  blaze  of 
insanity.  It  was  a  thing  which  her  mountain  supersti 
tion  could  not  understand,  a  thing  not  wholly  normal; 
a  manifestation  that  came  to  the  stoic  face  and  trans 
formed  it,  when  the  eyes  of  the  brain  and  heart  were 
seeing  things  which  she  herself  could  not  see.  It  was 
the  proclamation  of  the  part  of  Samson  which  she  could 
not  comprehend,  as  though  he  were  looking  into  a  spirit 
v  world  of  weird  and  abnormal  things.  It  was  the  light 
of  an  enthusiasm  such  as  his  love  for  her  could  not 
bring  to  his  eyes — and  it  told  her  that  the  strongest  and 
deepest  part  of  Samson  did  not  belong  to  her.  Now, 
as  the  young  man  stood  there  before  her,  and  her  little 
world  of  hope  and  happiness  seemed  crumbling  into 
ruins,  and  she  was  steeling  her  soul  to  sacrifice  herself 
and  let  him  go,  he  was  thinking,  not  of  what  it  was 


108     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

costing  her  in  heart-break,  but  seeing  visions  of  all  the 
great  world  held  for  him  beyond  the  barriers  of  the 
mountains.  The  light  in  his  eyes  seemed  to  flaunt  the 
victory  of  the  enthusiasms  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her. 

.Samson  came  forward,  and  held  out  his  arms.  But 
Sally  drew  away  with  a  little  shudder,  and  crouched  at 
the  end  of  the  stile. 

"What's  ther  matter,  Sally?"  he  demanded  in  sur 
prise,  and,  as  he  bent  toward  her,  his  eyes  lost  the 
strange  light  she  feared,  and  she  laughed  a  little  nervous 
laugh,  and  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Nothin*  hain't  ther  matter — now,"  she  said,  stanchly. 

Lescott  and  Samson  discussed  the  matter  frequently. 
At  times,  the  boy  was  obstinate  in  his  determination  to 
remain ;  at  other  times,  he  gave  way  to  the  yearnings 
for  change  and  opportunity.  But  the  lure  of  the  palette 
and  brush  possessed  him  beyond  resistance  and  his  taci 
turnity  melted,  when  in  the  painter's  company,  to  a 
roughly  poetic  form  of  expression. 

"Thet  sunrise,"  he  announced  one  morning,  setting 
down  his  milk-pail  to  gaze  at  the  east,  "is  jest  like  the 
sparkle  in  a  gal's  eyes  when  she's  tickled  at  somethin* 
ye've  said  about  her.  An,'  when  the  sun  sets,  hit's  likp 
the  whole  world  was  a  woman  blushin'." 

The  dance  on  Saturday  was  to  be  something  more' 
portentous  than  a  mere  frolic.  It  would  be  a  clan 
gathering  to  which  the  South  adherents  would  come 
riding  up  and  down  Misery  and  its  tributaries  from 
**nigh  abouts"  and  "over  yon."  From  forenoon  until 
after  midnight,  shuffle,  jig  and  fiddling  would  hold  high, 
if  rough,  carnival.  But,  while  the  younger  folk  aban- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBEKLANDS     109 

doned  themselves  to  these  diversions,  the  grayer  heads 
would  gather  in  more  serious  conclave.  Jesse  Purvy 
had  once  more  beaten  back  death,  and  his  mind  had 
probably  been  devising,  during  those  bed-ridden  days 
and  nights,  plans  of  reprisal.  According  to  current 
report,  Purvy  had  announced  that  his  would-be  assassin 
dwelt  on  Misery,  and  was  "marked  down."  So,  there  i 
were  obvious  exigencies  which  the  Souths  must  prepare 
to  meet.  In  particular,  the  clan  must  thrash  out  to 
definite  understanding  the  demoralizing  report  that 
Samson  South,  their  logical  leader,  meant  to  aban 
don  them,  at  a  crisis  when  war-clouds  were  thick 
ening. 

The  painter  had  finally  resolved  to  cut  the  Gordian 
knot,  and  leave  the  mountains.  He  had  trained  on  Sam 
son  to  the  last  piece  all  his  artillery  of  argument.  The 
case  was  now  submitted  with  the  suggestion  that  the 
boy  take  three  months  to  consider,  and  that,  if  he  decided 
affirmatively,  he  should  notify  Lescott  in  advance  of  his 
coming.  He  proposed  sending  Samson  a  small  library 
of  carefully  picked  books,  which  the  mountaineer  eagerly 
agreed  to  devour  in  the  interval. 

Lescott  consented,  however,  to  remain  over  Saturday, 
and  go  to  the  dance,  since  he  was  curious  to  observe 
what  pressure  was  brought  to  bear  on  the  boy,  and  to 
have  himself  a  final  word  of  argument  after  the  kinsmen 
had  spoken.  £ 

Saturday  morning  came  after  a  night  of  torrential 
rain,  which  had  left  the  mountains  steaming  under  a 
reek  of  fog  and  pitching  clouds.  Hillside  streams  ran 
freshets,  and  creek-bed  roads  were  foaming  and  boiling 
into  waterfalls.  Sheep  and  cattle  huddled  forlornly 


110     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

under  their  shelters  of  shelving  rock,  and  only  the  geese 
seemed  happy. 

Far  down  the  dripping  shoulders  of  the  mountains 
trailed  ragged  streamers  of  vapor.  Here  and  there 
along  the  lower  slopes  hung  puffs  of  smoky  mist  as 
though  silent  shells  were  bursting  from  unseen  artil 
lery  over  a  vast  theater  of  combat. 

But,  as  the  morning  wore  on,  the  sun  fought  its  way 
to  view  in  a  scrap  of  overhead  blue.  A  freshening 
breeze  plunged  into  the  reek,  and  sent  it  scurrying  in 
broken  cloud  ranks  and  shredded  tatters.  The  steamy 
heat  gave  way  under  a  dissipating  sweep  of  coolness, 
until  the  skies  smiled  down  on  the  hills  and  the  hills 
smiled  back.  From  log  cabins  and  plank  houses  up  and 
down  Misery  and  its  tributaries,  men  and  women  began 
their  hegira  toward  the  mill.  Some  came  on  foot,  carry 
ing  their  shoes  in  their  hands,  but  those  were  only 
near-by  dwellers.  Others  made  saddle  journeys  of  ten 
or  fifteen,  or  even  twenty,  miles,  and  the  beasts  that 
carried  a  single  burden  were  few.  Lescott  rode  in  the 
wake  of  Samson,  who  had  Sally  on  a  pillow  at  his  back, 
and  along  the  seven  miles  of  journey  he  studied  the 
strange  procession.  It  was,  for  the  most  part,  a  solemn 
cavalcade,  for  these  are  folk  who  "take  their  pleasures 
sadly."  Possibly,  some  of  the  sun-bonneted,  strangely- 
garbed  women  were  reflecting  on  the  possibilities  which 
mountain-dances  often  develop  into  tragic  actualities. 
Possibly,  oilers  were  having  their  enjoyment  discounted 
by  the  necessity  of  "dressing  up"  and  wearing  shoes. 

Sometimes,  a  slowly  ambling  mule  bore  an  entire 
family;  the  father  managing  the  reins  with  one  hand 
and  holding  a  baby  with  the  other,  while  his  rifle  lay 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     111 

balanced  across  his  pommel  and  his  wife  sat  solemnly 
behind  him  on  a  sheepskin  or  pillion.  Many  of  the  men 
rode  side-saddles,  and  sacks  bulky  at  each  end  hinted  of 
such  baggage  as  is  carried  in  jugs.  Lescott  realized 
from  the  frank  curiosity  with  which  he  was  regarded 
that  he  had  been  a  topic  of  discussion,  and  that  he  was 
now  being  "sized  up."  He  was  the  false  prophet  who 
was  weaving  a  spell  over  Samson!  Once,  he  heard  a 
sneering  voice  from  the  wayside  comment  as  he  rode  by. 

"He  looks  like  a  damned  parson." 

Glancing  back,  he  saw  a  tow-headed  youth  glowering 
at  him  out  of  pinkish  albino  eyes.  The  way  lay  in  part 
along  the  creek-bed,  where  wagons  had  ground  the  dis 
integrating  rock  into  deep  ruts  as  smooth  as  walls  of 
concrete.  Then,  it  traversed  a  country  of  palisading 
cliffs  and  immensity  of  forest,  park-like  and  splendid. 
Strangely  picturesque  suspension  bridges  with  rough 
stairways  at  their  ends  spanned  waters  too  deep  for 
fording.  Frame  houses  showed  along  the  banks  of  the 
creek — grown  here  to  a  river — unplaned  and  unpainted 
of  wall,  but  brightly  touched  with  window-  and  door 
frames  of  bright  yellow  or  green  or  blue.  This  was  the 
territory  where  the  Souths  held  dominance,  and  it  was 
pouring  out  its  people. 

They  came  before  noon  to  the  mouth  of  Dryhole 
Creek,  and  the  house  of  Wile  McCager.  Already,  the 
picket  fence  was  lined  with  tethered  horses  and  mules, 
and  a  canvas-covered  wagon  came  creeping  in  behind 
its  yoke  of  oxen.  Men  stood  clustered  in  the  road,  and 
at  the  entrance  a  woman,  nursing  her  baby  at  her  breast, 
welcomed  and  gossiped  with  the  arrivals. 

The  house  of  Wile  McCager  loaned  itself  to  enter- 


112     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

tainment.  It  was  not  of  logs,  but  of  undressed  lumber, 
and  boasted  a  front  porch  and  two  front  rooms  entered 
by  twin  doors  facing  on  a  triangular  alcove.  In  the 
recess  between  these  portals  stood  a  washstand,  sur 
mounted  by  a  china  basin  and  pitcher — a  declaration  of 
.affluence.  From  the  interior  of  the  house  came  the 
sounds  of  fiddling,  though  these  strains  of  "Turkey  in 
the  Straw"  were  only  by  way  of  prelude.  Lescott  felt, 
though  he  could  not  say  just  what  concrete  thing  told 
him,  that  under  the  shallow  note  of  merry-making 
brooded  the  major  theme  of  a  troublesome  problem. 
The  seriousness  was  below  the  surface,  but  insistently 
depressing.  He  saw,  too,  that  he  himself  was  mixed  up 
with  it  in  a  fashion,  which  might  become  dangerous, 
when  a  few  jugs  of  white  liquor  had  been  emptied. 

It  would  be  some  time  yet  before  the  crowd  warmed 
up.  Now,  they  only  stood  about  and  talked,  and  to 
Lescott  they  gave  a  gravely  polite  greeting,  beneath 
which  was  discernible  an  undercurrent  of  hostility. 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  painter  began  picking  out 
the  more  influential  clansmen,  by  the  fashion  in  which 
they  fell  together  into  groups,  and  took  themselves  off 
to  the  mill  by  the  racing  creek  for  discussion.  While 
the  young  persons  danced  and  "sparked"  within,  and 
the  more  truculent  lads  escaped  to  the  road  to  pass  the 
jug,  and  forecast  with  youthful  war-fever  "cleanin'  out 
the  Hollmans,"  the  elders  were  deep  in  ways  and  means. 
If  the  truce  could  be  preserved  for  its  unexpired  period 
of  three  years,  it  was,  of  course,  best.  In  that  event, 
crops  could  be  cultivated,  and  lives  saved.  But,  if  Jesse 
Purvy  chose  to  regard  his  shooting  as  a  breach  of  terms, 
and  struck,  he  would  strike  hard,  and,  in  that  event, 


best  defense  lay  in  striking  first.  Samson  would  soon 
be  twenty-one.  That  he  would  take  his  place  as  head  of 
the  clan  had  until  now  never  been  questioned — and  he 
was  talking  of  desertion.  For  that,  a  pink-skinned 
foreigner,  who  wore  a  woman's  bow  of  ribbon  at  his 
collar,  was  to  blame.  The  question  of  loyalty  must  be 
squarely  put  up  to  Samson,  and  it  must  be  done  to-day. 
His  answer  must  be  definite  and  unequivocal.  As  a  guest 
of  Spicer  South,  Lescott  was  entitled  to  that  considera 
tion  which  is  accorded  ambassadors. 

None  the  less,  the  vital  affairs  of  the  clan  could  not  be 
balked  by  consideration  for  a  stranger,  who,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  majority,  should  be  driven  from  the 
country  as  an  insidious  mischief-maker.  Ostensibly,  the 
truce  still  held,  but  at  no  time  since  its  signing  had 
matters  been  so  freighted  with  the  menace  of  a  gather 
ing  storm.  The  attitude  of  each  faction  was  that  of 
several  men  standing  quiet  with  guns  trained  on  one 
another's  breasts.  Each  hesitated  to  fire,  knowing  that 
to  pull  the  trigger  meant  to  die  himself,  yet  fearing 
that  another  trigger  might  at  any  moment  be  drawn. 
Purvy  dared  not  have  Samson  shot  out  of  hand,  because 
he  feared  that  the  Souths  would  <;laim  his  life  in  return, 
yet  he  feared  to  let  Samson  live.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
Purvy  fell,  no  South  could  balance  his  death,  except 
Spicer  or  Samson.  Any  situation  that  might  put  condi 
tions  to  a  moment  of  issue  would  either  prove  that  the 
truce  was  being  observed,  or  open  the  war — and  yet 
each  faction  was  guarding  against  such  an  event  as  too 
fraught  with  danger.  One  thing  was  certain.  By  per 
suasion  or  force,  Lescott  must  leave,  and  Samson  must 
show  himself  to  be  the  youth  he  had  been  thought,  or 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

the  confessed  and  repudiated  renegade.  Those  ques 
tions,  to-day  must  answer.  It  was  a  difficult  situation, 
and  promised  an  eventful  entertainment.  Whatever 
conclusion  was  reached  as  to  the  artist's  future,  he  was, 
until  the  verdict  came  in,  a  visitor,  and,  unless  liquor 
inflamed  some  reckless  trouble-hunter,  that  fact  would 
not  be  forgotten.  Possibly,  it  was  as  well  that  Tama 
rack  Spicer  had  not  arrived. 

Lescott  himself  realized  the  situation  in  part,  as  he 
stood  at  the  door  of  the  house  watching  the  scene  inside. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  round  dancing — only  the 
shuffle  and  jig — with  champions  contending  for  the 
honor  of  their  sections.  A  young  woman  from  Deer 
Lick  and  a  girl  from  the  head  of  Dryhill  had  been 
matched  for  the  "hoe-down,"  and  had  the  floor  to  them 
selves.  The  walls  were  crowded  with  partisan  onlookers, 
who  applauded  and  cheered  their  favorite. 

The  bows  scraped  faster  and  louder;  the  clapping 
hands  beat  more  tumultuously,  until  their  mad  tempo 
was  like  the  clatter  of  musketry;  the  dancers  threw 
themselves  deliriously  into  the  madly  quickening  step. 
It  was  a  riotous  saturnalia  of  flying  feet  and  twinkling 
ankles.  Onlookers  shouted  and  screamed  encourage 
ment.  It  seemed  that  the  girls  must  fall  in  exhaustion, 
yet  each  kept  on,  resolved  to  be  still  on  the  floor  when 
the  other  had  abandoned  it  in  defeat — that  being  the 
test  of  victory.  At  last,  the  girl  from  Dryhill  reeled, 
and  was  caught  by  half-a-dozen  arms.  Her  adversary, 
holding  the  floor  undisputed,  slowed  down,  and  someone 
stopped  the  fiddler.  Sally  turned  from  the  crowded 
wall,  and  began  looking  about  for  Samson.  He  was 
not  there.  Lescott  had  seen  him  leave  the  house  a  few 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     115 

moments  before,  and  started  over  to  intercept  the  girl, 
as  she  came  out  to  the  porch. 

In  the  group  about  the  door,  he  passed  a  youth  with 
tow-white  hair  and  very  pink  cheeks.  The  boy  was  the 
earliest  to  succumb  to  the  temptation  of  the  moonshine 
jug,  a  temptation  which  would  later  claim  others.  He 
was  reeling  crazily,  and  his  albino  eyes  were  now  red 
and  inflamed.  Lescott  remembered  him. 

"Thet's  ther  damned  furriner  thet's  done  turned 
Samson  inter  a  gal,"  proclaimed  the  youth,  in  a  thick 
voice. 

The  painter  paused,  and  looked  back.  The  boy  was 
reaching  under  his  coat  with  hands  that  had  become 
clumsy  and  unresponsive. 

"Let  me  git  at  him,"  he  shouted,  with  a  wild  whoop 
and  a  dash  toward  the  painter. 

Lescott  said  nothing,  but  Sally  had  heard,  and 
stepped  swiftly  between. 

"You've  got  ter  git  past  me  fust,  Buddy,"  she  said, 
quietly.  "I  reckon  ye'd  better  run  on  home,  an'  git  yore 
mammy  ter  put  ye  ter  bed." 


CHAPTER  XI 

SEVERAL  soberer  men  closed  around  the  boy,  and, 
after  disarming  him,  led  him  away  grumbling  and 
muttering,  while  Wile  McCager  made  apologies 
to  the  guest. 

" Jimmy's  jest  a  peevish  child,"  he  explained.  "A 
drop  or  two  of  licker  makes  him  skittish.  I  hopes  ye'll 
look  over  hit." 

Jimmy's  outbreak  was  interesting  to  Lescott  chiefly 
as  an  indication  of  what  might  follow.  He  noted  how 
the  voices  were  growing  louder  and  shriller,  and  how 
the  jug  was  circulating  faster.  A  boisterous  note  was 
making  itself  heard  through  the  good  humor  and  laugh 
ter,  and  the  "furriner"  remembered  that  these  minds, 
when  inflamed,  are  more  prone  to  take  the  tangent  of 
violence  than  that  of  mirth.  Unwilling  to  intioduce 
discord  by  his  presence,  and  involve  Samson  in  quarrels 
on  his  account,  he  suggested  riding  back  to  Misery, 
but  the  boy's  face  clouded  at  the  suggestion. 

"Ef  they  kain't  be  civil  ter  my  friends,"  he  said, 
shortly,  "they've  got  ter  account  ter  me.  You  stay 
right  hyar,  and  I'll  stay  clost  to  you.  I  done  come 
hyar  to-day  ter  tell  'em  that  they  mustn't  meddle  in 
my  business." 

A  short  while  later,  Wile  McCager  invited  Samson  to 
come  out  to  the  mill,  and  the  boy  nodded  to  Lescott  an 
invitation  to  accompany  him.  The  host  shook  his  head, 

116 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     117 

"We  kinder  'lowed  ter  talk  over  some  f  am'ly  matters 
with  ye,  Samson,"  he  demurred.  "I  reckon  Mr.  Les- 
cott'll  excuse  ye  f  er  a  spell." 

"Anything  ye've  got  ter  talk  ter  me  about,  George 

Lescott  kin  hear,"  said  the  youth,  defiantly.     "I  hain't 

jgot  no  secrets."    He  was  heir  to  his  father's  leadership, 

rand  his  father  had  been  unquestioned.     He  meant  to 

stand  uncompromisingly  on  his  prerogatives. 

For  an  instant,  the  old  miller's  keen  eyes  hardened 
obstinately.  After  Spicer  and  Samson  South,  he  was 
the  most  influential  and  trusted  of  the  South  leaders — 
and  Samson  was  still  a  boy.  His  ruggedly  chiseled 
features  were  kindly,  but  robustly  resolute,  and,  when 
he  was  angered,  few  men  cared  to  face  him.  For  an 
instant,  a  stinging  rebuke  seemed  to  hover  on  his  lips, 
then  he  turned  with  a  curt  jerk  of  his  large  head. 

"All  right.  Suit  yourselves.  I've  done  warned  ye 
both.  We  'lows  ter  talk  plain." 

The  mill,  dating  back  to  pioneer  days,  sat  by  its 
race  with  its  shaft  now  idle.  About  it,  the  white-boled 
sycamores  crowded  among  the  huge  rocks,  and  the  water 
poured  tumultuously  over  the  dam.  The  walls  of  mor 
tised  logs  were  chinked  with  rock  and  clay.  At  its 
porch,  two  discarded  millstones  served  in  lieu  of  steps. 
Over  the  door  were  fastened  a  spreading  pair  of  stag- 
antlers.  It  looked  to  Lescott,  as  he  approached,  like 
a  scrap  of  landscape  torn  from  some  medieval  picture, 
and  the  men  about  its  door  seemed  medieval,  too; 
bearded  and  gaunt,  hard-thewed  and  sullen. 

All  of  them  who  stood  waiting  were  men  of  middle 
age,  or  beyond.  A  number  were  gray-haired,  but  they 
were  all  of  cadet  branches.  Many  of  them,  like  Wile 


118     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

McCager  himself,  did  not  bear  the  name  of  South,  and 
Samson  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  eldest  son.  They  sat 
on  meal-whitened  bins  and  dusty  timbers  and  piled-up 
sacks.  Several  crouched  on  the  ground,  squatting  on 
their  heels,  and,  as  the  conference  proceeded,  they  drank 
moonshine  whiskey,  and  spat  solemnly  at  the  floor 
cracks. 

"Hevn't  ye  noticed  a  right-smart  change  in  Sam 
son?"  inquired  old  Caleb  Wiley  of  a  neighbor,  in  his 
octogenarian  quaver.  "The  boy  hes  done  got  es  quiet 
an'  pious  es  a  missionary." 

The  other  nodded  under  his  battered  black  felt  hat, 
and  beat  a  tattoo  with  the  end  of  his  long  hickory  staff. 

"He  hain't  drunk  a  half-pint  of  licker  to-day,"  he 
querulously  replied. 

"Why  in  heck  don't  we  run  this  here  pink-faced  con- 
jure-doctor  outen  the  mountings?"  demanded  Caleb, 
who  had  drunk  more  than  a  half -pint.  "He's  a-castin' 
spells  over  the  boy.  He's  a-practisin'  of  deviltries." 

"We're  a-goin'  ter  see  about  thet  right  now,"  was 
the  response.  "We  don't  'low  to  let  hit  run  on  no 
further." 

"Samson,"  began  old  Wile  McCager,  clearing  his 
throat  and  taking  up  his  duty  as  spokesman,  "we're 
all  your  kinf  oiks  here,  an'  we  aimed  ter  ask  ye  about  this 
here  report  thet  yer  'lowin'  ter  leave  the  mountings?" 

"What  of  hit?"  countered  the  boy. 

"Hit  looks  mighty  like  the  war's  a-goin'  ter  be  on 
ag'in  pretty  soon.  Air  ye  a-goin'  ter  quit,  or  air  ye 
a-goin'  ter  stick?  Thet's  what  we  wants  ter  know." 

"I  didn't  make  this  here  truce,  an'  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter 
bust  hit/'  said  the  boy,  quietly.  "When  the  war  com- 


mences,  I'll  be  hyar.  Ef  I  hain't  hyar  in  the  meantime, 
hit  hain't  nobody's  business.  I  hain't  accountable  ter 
no  man  but  my  pap,  an'  I  reckon,  whar  he  is,  he  knows 
whether  I'm  a-goin'  ter  keep  my  word." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Wile  McCager 
put  another  question: 

"Ef  ye're  plumb  sot  on  gittin'  larnin'  why  don't  ye 
git  hit  right  hyar  in  these  mountings?" 

Samson  laughed  derisively. 

"Who'll  I  git  hit  from?"  he  caustically  inquired.  "Ef 
the  mountain  won't  come  ter  Mohamet,  Mohamet's  got 
ter  go  ter  the  mountain,  I  reckon."  The  figure  was  one 
they  did  not  understand.  It  was  one  Samson  himself 
had  only  acquired  of  late.  He  was  quoting  George  Les- 
cott.  But  one  thing  there  was  which  did  not  escape 
his  hearers :  the  tone  of  contempt.  Eyes  of  smoldering 
hate  turned  on  the  visitor  at  whose  door  they  laid  the 
blame. 

Caleb  Wiley  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  his  shaggy 
beard  trembling  with  wrath  and  his  voice  quavering 
with  senile  indignation. 

"Hev  ye  done  got  too  damned  good  fer  yore  kin- 
folks,  Samson  South?"  he  shrilly  demanded.  "Hev  ye 
done  been  follerin'  atter  this  here  puny  witch-doctor 
fcwell  ye  can't  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  yer  head  fer  yore 
'elders?  I'm  in  favor  of  runnin'  this  here  furriner  outen 
the  country  with  tar  an'  feathers  on  him.  Furthermore, 
I'm  in  favor  of  cleanin'  out  the  Hollmans.  I  was  jest 
a-sayin'  ter  Bill " 

"Never  mind  what  ye  war  jest  a-sayin',"  interrupted 
the  boy,  flushing  redly  to  his  cheekbones,  but  controlling 
his  voice.  "Ye've  done  said  enough  a'ready.  Ye're  a 


120     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

right  old  man,  Caleb,  an'  I  reckon  thet  gives  ye  some 
license  ter  shoot  off  yore  face,  but  ef  any  of  them 
no-'count,  shif  less  boys  of  yores  wants  ter  back  up  what 
ye  says,  I'm  ready  ter  go  out  thar  an'  make  'em  eat  hit. 
I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  answer  no  more  questions." 

There  was  a  commotion  of  argument,  until  "Black 
Dave"  Jasper,  a  saturnine  giant,  whose  hair  was  no 
blacker  than  his  expression,  rose,  and  a  semblance  of 
quiet  greeted  him  as  he  spoke. 

"Mebby,  Samson,  ye've  got  a  right  ter  take  the  studs 
this  a-way,  an'  ter  refuse  ter  answer  our  questions,  but 
we've  got  a  right  ter  say  who  kin  stay  in  this  hyar 
country.  Ef  ye  'lows  ter  quit  us,  I  reckon  we  kin  quit 
you — and,  if  we  quits  ye,  ye  hain't  nothin'  more  ter  us 
then  no  other  boy  thet's  gettin'  too  big  fer  his  breeches. 
This  furriner  is  a  visitor  here  to-day,  an'  we  don't  'low 
ter  hurt  him — but  he's  got  ter  go.  We  don't  want  him 
round  hyar  no  longer."  He  turned  to  Lescott.  "We're 
a-givin'  ye  fair  warnin',  stranger.  Ye  hain't  our  breed. 
Atter  this,  ye  stays  on  Misery  at  yore  own  risk — an* 
hit's  a-goin'  ter  be  plumb  risky.  That  thar's  final." 

"This  man,"  blazed  the  boy,  before  Lescott  could 
speak,  "is  a-visitin*  me  an*  Unc'  Spicer.  When  ye  wants 
him  ye  kin  come  up  thar  an'  git  him.  Every  damned, 
man  of  ye  kin  come.  I  hain't  a-sayin'  how  many  of 
ye'll  go  back.  He  was  'lowin'  that  he'd  leave  hyar  ter- 
morrer  mornin',  but  atter  this  I'm  a-tellin'  ye  he  hain't 
a-goin'  ter  do  hit.  He's  a-goin'  ter  stay  es  long  es 
he  likes,  an'  nobody  hain't  a-goin'  ter  run  him  off." 
Samson  took  his  stand  before  the  painter,  and  swept  the 
group  with  his  eyes.  "An5  what's  more,"  he  added, 
"I'll  tell  ye  another  thing.  I  hadn't  plumb  made  up 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

my  mind  ter  leave  the  mountings,  but  ye've  done  settled 
hit  fer  me.  I'm  a-goin'." 

There  was  a  low  murmur  of  anger,  and  a  voice  cried 
out  from  the  rear: 

"Let  him  go.  We  hain't  got  no  use  fer  damn 
cowards." 

"Whoever  said  thet's  a  liar !"  shouted  the  boy.  Les- 
cott,  standing  at  his  side,  felt  that  the  situation  was 
more  than  parlous.  But,  before  the  storm  could  break, 
some  one  rushed  in,  and  whispered  to  Wile  McCager  a 
message  that  caused  him  to  raise  both  hands  above  his 
head,  and  thunder  for  attention. 

"Men,"  he  roared,  "listen  ter  me!  This  here  hain't 
no  time  fer  squabblin*  amongst  ourselves.  We're  all 
Souths.  Tamarack  Spicer  has  done  gone  ter  Hixon, 
an'  got  inter  trouble.  He's  locked  up  in  the  jail-house." 

"We're  all  hyar,"  screamed  old  Caleb's  high,  broken 
voice.  "Let's  go  an'  take  him  out." 

Samson's  anger  had  died.  He  turned,  and  held  a 
whispered  conversation  with  McCager,  and,  at  its  end, 
the  host  of  the  day  announced  briefly : 

"Samson's  got  somethin'  ter  say  ter  ye.  So  long  as 
he's  willhi'  ter  stand  by  us,  I  reckon  we're  willin'  ter 
listen  ter  Henry  South's  boy." 

"I  hain't  got  no  use  for  Tam'rack  Spicer,"  said  the 
'boy,  succinctly,  "but  I  don't  'low  ter  let  him  lay  in  no 
jail-house,  unlessen  he's  got  a  right  ter  be  thai*.  What's 
he  charged  with?" 

But  no  one  knew  that.  A  man  supposedly  close  to 
the  Hollmans,  but  in  reality  an  informer  for  the  Souths, 
had  seen  him  led  into  the  jail-yard  by  a  posse  of  a  half- 
dozen  men,  and  had  seen  the  iron-barred  doors  close  on 


him.  That  was  all,  except  that  the  Hollman  forces  were 
gathering  in  Hixon,  and,  if  the  Souths  went  there  en 
masse,  a  pitched  battle  must  be  the  inevitable  result. 
The  first  step  was  to  gain  accurate  information  and  an 
answer  to  one  vital  question.  Was  Tamarack  held  as  a 
feud  victim,  or  was  his  arrest  legitimate?  How  to  learn 
that  was  the  problem.  To  send  a  body  of  men  was  to 
invite  bloodshed.  To  send  a  single  inquirer  was  to 
deliver  him  over  to  the  enemy. 

"Air  you  men  willin'  ter  take  my  word  about  Tama 
rack?"  inquired  Samson.  But  for  the  scene  of  a  few 
minutes  ago,  it  would  have  been  an  unnecessary  question. 
There  was  a  clamorous  assent,  and  the  boy  turned  to 
Lescott. 

"I  wants  ye  ter  take  Sally  home  with  ye.  Ye'd  better 
start  right  away,  afore  she  heers  any  of  this  talk.  Hit 
would  fret  her.  Tell  her  I've  had  ter  go  'cross  ther 
country  a  piece,  ter  see  a  sick  man.  Don't  tell  her  whar 
I'm  a-goin'."  He  turned  to  the  others.  "I  reckon  I've 
got  yore  promise  thet  Mr.  Lescott  hain't  a-goin'  ter  be 
bothered  afore  I  gits  back?" 

Wile  McCager  promptly  gave  the  assurance. 

"I  gives  ye  my  hand  on  hit." 

"I  seed  Jim  Asberry  loafin'  round  jest  beyond  ther 
ridge,  es  I  rid  over  hyar,"  volunteered  the  man  who  had 
brought  the  message. 

"Go  slow  now,  Samson.  Don't  be  no  blame  fool," 
dissuaded  Wile  McCager.  "Hixon's  plumb  full  of  them 
Hollmans,  an'  they're  likely  ter  be  full  of  licker — hit's 
Saturday.  Hit's  apt  ter  be  shore  death  fer  ye  ter  try 
ter  ride  through  Main  Street — ef  ye  gits  thet  fur.  Ye 
dassent  do  hit." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     123 

"I  dast  do  anything !"  asserted  the  boy,  with  a  flash  of 
sudden  anger.  "Some  liar  'lowed  awhile  ago  thet  I  was 
a  coward.  All  right,  mebby  I  be.  Unc'  Wile,  keep  the 
boys  hyar  tell  ye  hears  from  me — an'  keep  'em  sober." 
He  turned  and  made  his  way  to  the  fence  where  his  mule 
stood  hitched. 

When  Samson  crossed  the  ridge,  and  entered  the  Holl- 
man  country,  Jim  Asberry,  watching  from  a  hilltop 
point  of  vantage,  rose  and  mounted  the  horse  that  stood 
hitched  behind  a  near-by  screen  of  rhododendron  bushes 
and  young  cedars.  Sometimes,  he  rode  just  one  bend  of 
the  road  in  Samson's  rear.  Sometimes,  he  took  short 
cuts,  and  watched  his  enemy  pass.  But  always  he  held 
him  under  a  vigilant  eye.  Finally,  he  reached  a  wayside 
store  where  a  local  telephone  gave  communication  with 
Hollman's  Mammoth  Department  Store. 

"Jedge,"  he  informed,  "Samson  South's  done  left  the 
party  et  ther  mill,  an'  he's  a-ridin'  towards  town.  Shall 
I  git  him?" 

"Is  he  comin'  by  hisself  ?"  inquired  the  storekeeper. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  jest  let  him  come  on.  We  can  tend  ter  him 
hyar,  ef  necessary."  So,  Jim  withheld  his  hand,  and 
'merely  shadowed,  sending  bulletins,  from  time  to  time. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  Samson  started.  It  was 
•near  six  when  he  reached  the  ribbon  of  road  that  loops 
down  into  town  over  the  mountain.  His  mule  was  in  a 
lather  of  sweat.  He  knew  that  he  was  being  spied  upon, 
and  that  word  of  his  coming  was  traveling  ahead  of  him. 
What  he  did  not  know  was  whether  or  not  it  suited  Jesse 
Purvy's  purpose  that  he  should  slide  from  his  mule,  dead, 
before  he  turned  homeward.  If  Tamarack  had  been 


seized  as  a  declaration  of  war,  the  chief  South  would 
certainly  not  be  allowed  to  return.  If  the  arrest  had 
not  been  for  feud  reasons,  he  might  escape.  That  was 
the  question  which  would  be  answered  with  his  life  or 
death. 

The  boy  kept  his  eyes  straight  to  the  front,  fixed  on! 
the  philosophical  wagging  of  his  mule's  brown  ears. 
Finally,  he  crossed  the  bridge  that  gave  entrance  to  the 
town,  as  yet  unharmed,  and  clattered  at  a  trot  between 
the  shacks  of  the  environs.  He  was  entering  the  fortified 
stronghold  of  the  enemy,  and  he  was  expected.  As  he 
rode  along,  doors  closed  to  slits,  and  once  or  twice  he 
caught  the  flash  of  sunlight  on  a  steel  barrel,  but  his  eyes 
held  to  the  front.  Several  traveling  men,  sitting  on  the 
porch  of  the  hotel  opposite  the  court-house,  rose  when 
they  saw  his  mule,  and  went  inside,  closing  the  door 
behind  them. 

The  "jail-house"  was  a  small  building  of  home-made 
brick,  squatting  at  the  rear  of  the  court-house  yard. 
Its  barred  windows  were  narrow  with  sills  breast-high. 

The  court-house  itself  was  shaded  by  large  oaks  and 
sycamores,  and,  as  Samson  drew  near,  he  saw  that  some 
ten  or  twelve  men,  armed  with  rifles,  separated  from 
groups  and  disposed  themselves  behind  the  tree  trunks 
and  the  stone  coping  of  the  well.  None  of  them  spoke,, 
and  Samson  pretended  that  he  had  not  seen  them.  He 
rode  his  mule  at  a  walk,  knowing  that  he  was  rifle- 
covered  from  a  half-dozen  windows.  At  the  hitching 
rack  directly  beneath  the  county  building,  he  flung  his 
reins  over  a  post,  and,  swinging  his  rifle  at  his  side, 
passed  casually  along  the  brick  walk  to  the  jail.  The 
men  behind  the  trees  edged  around  their  covers  as  he 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     125 

went,  keeping  themselves  protected,  as  squirrels  creep 
around  a  trunk  when  a  hunter  is  lurking  below.  Sam 
son  halted  at  the  jail  wall,  and  called  the  prisoner's 
name.  A  towsled  head  and  surly  face  appeared  at  the 
barred  window,  and  the  boy  went  over  and  held  converse 
from  the  outside. 

"How  in  hell  did  ye  git  into  town?"  demanded  the 
prisoner. 

"I  rid  in,"  was  the  short  reply.  "How'd  ye  git  in 
the  jail-house?" 

The  captive  was  shamefaced. 

"I  got  a  leetle  too  much  licker,  an'  I  was  shootin'  out 
the  lights  last  night,"  he  confessed. 

"What  business  did  ye  have  hyar  in  Hixon?" 

"I  jest  slipped  in  ter  see  a  gal." 

Samson  leaned  closer,  and  lowered  his  voice. 

"Does  they  know  thet  ye  shot  them  shoots  at  Jesse 
Purvy  ?" 

Tamarack  turned  pale. 

"No,"  he  stammered,  "they  believe  you  done  hit." 

Samson  laughed.  He  was  thinking  of  the  rifles 
trained  on  him  from  a  dozen  invisible  rests. 

"How  long  air  they  a-goin'  ter  keep  ye  hyar?"  he 
demanded. 

"I  kin  git  out  to-morrer  ef  I  pays  the  fine.  Hit's  ten 
dollars." 

"An'  ef  ye  don't  pay  the  fine?" 

"Hit's  a  dollar  a  day." 

"I  reckon  ye  don't  'low  ter  pay  hit,  do  ye?" 

"I  'lowed  mebby  ye  mout  pay  hit  fer  me,  Samson." 

"Ye  done  'lowed  plumb  wrong.    I  come  hyar  ter  see 


126     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

ef  ye  needed  help,  but  hit  'pears  ter  me  they're  lettin* 
ye  off  easy." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went  back  to  his  mule. 
The  men  behind  the  trees  began  circling  again.  Sam 
son  mounted,  and,  with  his  chin  well  up,  trotted  back 
along  the  main  street.  It  was  over.  The  question  was 
answered.  The  Hollmans  regarded  the  truce  as  still 
effective.  The  fact  that  they  were  permitting  him  to 
ride  out  alive  was  a  wordless  assurance  of  that.  Inci 
dentally,  he  stood  vindicated  in  the  eyes  of  his  own 
people. 

When  Samson  reached  the  mill  it  was  ten  o'clock. 
The  men  were  soberer  than  they  had  been  in  the  after 
noon.  McCager  had  seen  to  that.  The  boy  replaced  his 
exhausted  mule  with  a  borrowed  mount.  At  midnight, 
as  he  drew  near  the  cabin  of  the  Widow  Miller,  he  gave 
a  long,  low  whippoorwill  call,  and  promptly,  from  the 
shadow  of  the  stile,  a  small  tired  figure  rose  up  to  greet 
him.  For  hours  that  little  figure  had  been  sitting  there, 
silent,  wide-eyed  and  terrified,  nursing  her  knees  in 
locked  fingers  that  pressed  tightly  into  the  flesh.  She 
had  not  spoken.  She  had  hardly  moved.  She  had  only 
gazed  out,  keeping  the  vigil  with  a  white  face  that  was 
beginning  to  wear  the  drawn,  heart-eating  anxiety  of  the 
mountain  woman ;  the  woman  whose  code  demands  that 
she  stand  loyally  to  her  clan's  hatreds ;  the  woman  who 
has  none  of  the  man's  excitement  in  stalking  human 
game,  which  is  also  stalking  him ;  the  woman  who  must 
only  stay  at  home  and  imagine  a  thousand  terrors — and 
wait. 

A  rooster  was  crowing,  and  the  moon  had  set.  Only 
the  stars  were  left, 


"Sally,"  the  boy  reproved,  "hit's  most  mornin',  an* 
ye  Must  be  plumb  fagged  out.  Why  hain't  you  in  bed  ?" 

"I  'lowed  ye'd  come  by  hyar,"  she  told  him  simply, 
"and  I  waited  fer  ye.  I  knowed  whar  ye  had  went,"  she 
added,  "an'  I  was  skeered." 

"How  did  ye  know?" 

"I  heered  thet  Tam'rack  was  in  the  jail-house,  an* 
'  somebody  hed  ter  go  ter  Hixon.  So,  of  course,  I  knowed 
hit  would  be  you," 


CHAPTER  XH 

LE  SCOTT  stayed  on  a  week  after  that  simply  in 
deference  to  Samson's  insistence.  To  leave  at 
once  might  savor  of  flight  under  fire,  but  when 
the  week  was  out  the  painter  turned  his  horse's  head 
toward  town,  and  his  train  swept  him  back  to  the  Blue- 
grass  and  the  East.  As  he  gazed  out  of  his  car  windows 
at  great  shoulders  of  rock  and  giant  trees,  things 
he  was  leaving  behind,  he  felt  a  sudden  twinge  of  some 
thing  akin  to  homesickness.  He  knew  that  he  should 
miss  these  great  humps  of  mountains  and  the  ragged 
grandeur  of  the  scenery.  With  the  rich  smoothness  of 
the  Bluegrass,  a  sense  of  flatness  and  heaviness  came  to 
his  lungs.  Level  metal  roads  and  loamy  fields  invited 
his  eye.  The  tobacco  stalks  rose  in  profuse  heaviness  of 
sticky  green;  the  hemp  waved  its  feathery  tops; 
and  woodlands  were  clear  of  underbrush — the  pauper 
counties  were  behind  him. 

A  quiet  of  unbroken  and  deadly  routine  settled  down 
on  Misery.  The  conduct  of  the  Souths  in  keeping 
^hands  off,  and  acknowledging  the  justice  of  Tamarack 
Spicer's  jail  sentence,  had  been  their  answer  to  the  dec 
laration  of  the  Hollmans  in  letting  Samson  ride  into 
and  out  of  Hixon.  The  truce  was  established.  When, 
a  short  time  later,  Tamarack  left  the  country  to  become 
a  railroad  brakeman,  Jesse  Purvy  passed  the  word  that 
his  men  must,  until  further  orders,  desist  from  violence, 

128 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     129 

The  word  had  crept  about  that  Samson,  too,  was  going 
away,  and,  if  this  were  true,  Jesse  felt  that  his  future 
would  be  more  secure  than  his  past.  Purvy  believed 
Samson  guilty,  despite  the  exoneration  of  the  hounds. 
Their  use  had  been  the  idea  of  over-fervent  relatives. 
He  himself  scoffed  at  their  reliability. 

"I  wouldn't  believe  no  dog  on  oath,"  he  declared^ 
Besides,  he  preferred  to  blame  Samson,  since  he  was  the 
head  of  the  tribe  and  because  he  himself  knew  what 
cause  Samson  had  to  hate  him.  Perhaps,  even  now, 
Samson  meant  to  have  vengeance  before  leaving.  Pos 
sibly,  even,  this  ostentatious  care  to  regard  the  truce 
was  simply  a  shrewdly  planned  sham  meant  to  disarm 
his  suspicion. 

Until  Samson  went,  if  he  did  go,  Jesse  Purvy  would 
redouble  his  caution.  It  would  be  a  simple  matter  to 
have  the  boy  shot  to  death,  and  end  all  question.  Sam 
son  took  no  precautions  to  safeguard  his  life,  but  he 
had  a  safeguard  none  the  less.  Purvy  felt  sure  that 
within  a  week  after  Samson  fell,  despite  every  care  he 
might  take,  he,  too,  would  fall.  He  was  tired  of  being 
shot  down.  Purvy  was  growing  old,  and  the  fires  of  war 
were  burning  to  embers  in  his  veins.  He  was  becoming 
more  and  more  interested  in  other  things.  It  dawned 
upon  him  that  to  be  known  as  a  friend  of  the  poor  held 
more  allurement  for  gray-haired  age  than  to  be  known 
as  a  master  of  assassins.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  sit 
undisturbed,  and  see  his  grandchildren  grow  up,  and  he 
recognized,  with  a  sudden  ferocity  of  repugnance,  that 
he  did  not  wish  them  to  grow  up  as  feud  fighters.  Purvy 
had  not  reformed,  but,  other  things  being  equal,  he 
would  prefer  to  live  and  let  live.  He  had  reached  that 


130     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

stage  to  which  all  successful  villains  come  at  some  time, 
when  he  envied  the  placid  contentment  of  respected 
virtues.  Ordering  Samson  shot  down  was  a  last  resort 
— one  to  be  held  in  reserve  until  the  end. 

So,  along  Misery  and  Crippleshin,  the  men  of  the 
factions  held  their  fire  while  the  summer  spent  itself, 
and  over  the  mountain  slopes  the  leaves  began  to  turn, 
and  the  mast  to  ripen. 

Lescott  had  sent  a  box  of  books,  and  Samson  had 
taken  a  team  over  to  Hixon,  and  brought  them  back. 
It  was  a  hard  journey,  attended  with  much  plunging 
against  the  yokes  and  much  straining  of  trace  chains. 
Sally  had  gone  with  him.  Samson  was  spending  as  much 
time  as  possible  in  her  society  now.  The  girl  was  saying 
little  about  his  departure,  but  her  eyes  were  reading, 
and  without  asking  she  knew  that  his  going  was  inevi 
table.  Many  nights  she  cried  herself  to  sleep,  but,  when 
he  saw  her,  she  was  always  the  same  blithe,  bird-like 
creature  that  she  had  been  before.  She  was  philo 
sophically  sipping  her  honey  while  the  sun  shone. 

Samson  read  some  of  the  books  aloud  to  Sally,  who 
had  a  child's  passion  for  stories,  and  who  could  not  have 
spelled  them  out  for  herself.  He  read  badly,  but  to  her 
it  was  the  flower  of  scholastic  accomplishment,  and  her 
untrained  brain,  sponge-like  in  its  acquisitiveness,  soaked 
up  many  new  words  and  phrases  which  fell  again 
quaintly  from  her  lips  in  talk.  Lescott  had  spent  a 
week  picking  out  those  books.  He  had  wanted  them  to 
argue  for  him ;  to  feed  the  boy's  hunger  for  education, 
and  give  him  some  forecast  of  the  life  that  awaited  him. 
His  choice  had  been  an  effort  to  achieve  imdtwm  in 
paruo,  but  Samson  devoured  them  all  from  title  page 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     131 

to  finis  line,  and  many  of  them  he  went  back  to,  and 
digested  again* 

He  wrestled  long  amd  gently  with  his  uncle,  strug 
gling  to  win  the  old  man's  consent  to  his  departure. 
But  Spieer  South's  brain  wai  no  longer  plastic.  What 
had  been  good  enough  for  the  past  was  good  enough 
for  the  future.  He  sought  to  take  the  most  tolerant 
view,  and  to  believe  that  Samson  was  acting  on  convic 
tion  and  not  on  an  ingrate's  impulse,  but  that  was  the 
best  he  could  do,  and  he  added  to  himself  that  Samson's 
was  an  abnormal  and  perverted  conviction.  Neverthe 
less,  he  arranged  affairs  so  that  his  nephew  should  be 
able  to  meet  financial  needs,  and  to  go  where  he  chose 
in  a  fashion  befitting  a  South.  The  old  man  was 
intensely  proud,  and,  if  the  boy  were  bent  on  wasting 
himself,  he  should  waste  like  a  family  head,  and  not 
appear  a  pauper  among  strangers. 

The  autumn  came,  and  the  hills  blazed  out  in  their 
fanfare  of  splendid  color.  The  broken  skyline  took  on 
a  wistful  sweetness  under  the  haze  of  "the  Great  Spirit's 
peace-pipe." 

The  sugar  trees  flamed  their  fullest  crimson  that  fall. 
The  poplars  were  clear  amber  and  the  hickories  russet 
and  the  oaks  a  deep  burgundy.  Lean  hogs  began  to 
fill  and  fatten  with  their  banqueting  on  beechnuts  and 
acorns.  Scattered  quail  came  together  in  the  conclave 
of  the  covey,  and  changed  their  summer  call  for  the 
"hover"  whistle.  Shortly,  the  rains  would  strip  the 
trees,  and  leave  them  naked.  Then,  Misery  would  vin 
dicate  its  christener.  But,  now,  as  if  to  compensate  in 
a  few  carnival  days  of  champagne  sparkle  and  color, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

the  mountain  world  was  burning  out  its  summer  life 
on  a  pyre  of  transient  splendor. 

November  came  in  bleakly,  with  a  raw  and  devas 
tating  breath  of  fatality.  The  smile  died  from  horizon 
to  horizon,  and  for  days  cold  rains  beat  and  lashed  the 
forests.  And,  toward  the  end  of  that  month,  came  the 
day  which  Samson  had  set  for  his  departure.  He  had 
harvested  the  corn,  and  put  the  farm  in  order.  He  had 
packed  into  his  battered  saddlebags  what  things  were  to 
go  with  him  into  his  new  life.  The  sun  had  set  in  a 
sickly  bank  of  murky,  red-lined  clouds.  His  mule,  which 
knew  the  road,  and  could  make  a  night  trip,  stood 
saddled  by  the  stile.  A  kinsman  was  to  lead  it  back 
from  Kixon  when  Samson  had  gone.  The  boy  slowly 
put  on  his  patched  and  mud-stained  overcoat.  His  face 
was  sullen  and  glowering.  There  was  a  lump  in  his 
throat,  like  the  lump  that  had  been  there  when  he  stood 
with  his  mother's  arm  about  his  shoulders,  and  watched 
the  dogs  chase  a  rabbit  by  his  father's  grave.  Supper 
had  been  eaten  in  silence.  Now  that  the  hour  of  depar 
ture  had  come,  he  felt  the  guilt  of  the  deserter.  He 
realized  how  aged  his  uncle  seemed,  and  how  the  old 
man  hunched  forward  over  the  plate  as  they  ate  the 
last  meal  they  should,  for  a  long  while,  have  together. 
It  was  only  by  sullen  taciturnity  that  he  could  retain 
his  composure. 

At  the  threshold,  with  the  saddlebags  over  his  left 
forearm  and  the  rifle  in  his  hand,  he  paused.  His 
uncle  stood  at  his  elbow  and  the  boy  put  out  his  hand. 

"Good-by,  Unc'  Spicer,"  was  all  he  said.  The  old 
man,  who  had  been  his  second  father,  shook  hands.  His 
face,  too,  was  expressionless,  but  he  felt  that  he  was 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     133 

saying  farewell  to  a  soldier  of  genius  who  was  abandon 
ing  the  field.  And  he  loved  the  boy  with  all  the  cen 
tered  power  of  an  isolated  heart. 

"Hadn't  ye  better  take  a  lantern  ?"  he  questioned. 

"No,  I  reckon  I  won't  need  none."  And  Samson 
went  out,  and  mounted  his  mule. 

A  half-mile  along  the  road,  he  halted  and  dis 
mounted.  There,  in  a  small  cove,  surrounded  by  a 
tangle  of  briars  and  blackberry  bushes,  stood  a  small 
and  dilapidated  "meeting  house"  and  churchyard,  which 
he  must  visit.  He  made  his  way  through  the  rough 
undergrowth  to  the  unkempt  half -acre,  and  halted  be 
fore  the  leaning  headstones  which  marked  two  graves. 
With  a  sudden  emotion,  he  swept  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  eyes.  He  did  not  remove  his  hat,  but  he 
stood  in  the  drizzle  of  cold  rain  for  a  moment  of  silence, 
and  then  he  said: 

"Pap,  I  hain't  fergot.  I  don't  want  ye  ter  think 
thet  I've  fergot." 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  Widow  Miller's,  the  rain 
had  stopped  and  the  clouds  had  broken.  Back  of  them 
was  a  discouraged  moon,  which  sometimes  showed  its 
face  for  a  fitful  moment,  only  to  disappear.  The  wind 
was  noisily  floundering  through  the  treetops.  Near 
the  stile,  Samson  gave  his  whippoorwill  call.  It  was, 
perhaps,  not  quite  so  clear  or  true  as  usual,  but  that 
did  not  matter.  There  were  no  other  whippoorwills 
calling  at  this  season  to  confuse  signals.  He  crossed 
the  stile,  and  with  a  word  quieted  Sally's  dog  as  it  rose 
to  challenge  him,  and  then  went  with  him,  licking  his 
hand. 

Sally  opened  the  door,  and  smiled.     She  had  spent 


134     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

the  day  nerving  herself  for  this  farewell,  and  at  least 
until  the  moment  of  leave-taking  she  would  be  safe  from 
tears.  The  Widow  Miller  and  her  son  soon  left  them 
alone,  and  the  boy  and  girl  sat  before  the  blazing  logs. 

For  a  time,  an  awkward  silence  fell  between  them. 
Sally  had  donned  her  best  dress,  and  braided  her  red- 
brown  hair.  She  sat  with  her  chin  in  her  palms,  and 
the  fire  kissed  her  cheeks  and  temples  into  color.  That 
picture  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  remained  with  Samson 
for  a  long  while,  and  there  were  times  of  doubt  and 
perplexity  when  he  closed  his  eyes  and  steadied  himself 
by  visualizing  it  all  again  in  his  heart.  At  last,  the 
boy  rose,  and  went  over  to  the  corner  where  he  had 
placed  his  gun.  He  took  it  up,  and  laid  it  on  the 
hearth  between  them. 

"Sally,"  he  said,  "I  wants  ter  tell  ye  some  things  thet 
I  hain't  never  said  ter  nobody  else.  In  the  fust  place, 
I  wants  ye  ter  keep  this  hyar  gun  fer  me." 

The  girl's  eyes  widened  with  surprise. 

"Hain't  ye  a-goin'  ter  take  hit  with  ye,  Samson  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  need  hit  down  below.  Nobody 
don't  use  'em  down  thar.  I've  got  my  pistol,  an'  I 
reckon  thet  will  be  enough." 

"I'll  take  good  keer  of  hit,"  she  promised. 

The  boy  took  out  of  his  pockets  a  box  of  cartridges 
and  a  small  package  tied  in  a  greasy  rag. 

"Hit's  loaded,  Sally,  an'  hit's  cleaned  an*  hit's 
greased.  Hit's  ready  fer  use." 

Again,  she  nodded  in  silent  assent,  and  the  boy  began 
speaking  in  a  slow,  careful  voice,  which  gradually 
mounted  into  tense  emotion. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     135 

"Sally,  thet  thar  gun  was  my  pap's.  When  he  lay 
a-dyin',  he  gave  hit  ter  me,  an'  he  gave  me  a  job  ter 
do  with  hit.  When  I  was  a  little  feller,  I  used  ter  set 
up  'most  all  day,  polishin'  thet  gun  an'  gittin'  hit 
ready.  I  used  ter  go  out  in  the  woods,  an'  practise 
shootin'  hit  at  things,  tell  I  larned  how  ter  handle  hit. 
I  reckon  thar  hain't  many  fellers  round  here  thet  kin 
beat  me  now."  He  paused,  and  the  girl  hastened  to 
corroborate. 

"Thar  hain't  none,  Samson." 

"There  hain't  nothin'  in  the  world,  Sally,  thet  I  prizes 
like  I  does  thet  gun.  Hit's  got  a  job  ter  do.  .  .  . 
Thar  hain't  but  one  person  in  the  world  I'd  trust  hit 
with.  Thet's  you.  ...  I  wants  ye  ter  keep  hit  fer 
me,  an*  ter  keep  hit  ready.  .  .  .  They  thinks  round 
hyar  I'm  quittin',  but  I  hain't.  I'm  a-comin'  back,  an', 
when  I  conies,  I'll  need  this  hyar  thing — an'  I'll  need 
hit  b*.d."  He  took  up  the  rifle,  and  ran  his  hand  caress 
ingly  along  its  lock  and  barrel. 

"I  don't  know  when  I'm  a-comin',"  he  said,  slowly, 
"but,  when  I  calls  fer  this,  I'm  shore  a-goin'  ter  need 
hit  quick.  I  wants  hit  ter  be  ready  fer  me,  day  er  night. 
Maybe,  nobody  won't  know  I'm  hyar.  «  ,  .  Maybe, 
I  won't  want  nobody  ter  know.  .  .  »  But,  when  I 
whistles  out  thar  like  a  whippoorwill,  I  wants  ye  ter  slip 
out — an'  f  otch  me  thet  gun !" 

He  stopped,  and  bent  forward.  His  face  was  tense, 
and  his  eyes  were  glinting  with  purpose.  His  lips  were 
tight  set  and  fanatical. 

"Samson,"  said  the  girl,  reaching  out  and  taking  the 
weapon  from  his  hands,  "ef  I'm  alive  when  ye  comes, 
I'll  do  hit.  I  promises  ye.  An',"  she  added,  "ef  I  hain't 


136     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

alive,  hlt'll  be  standin'  thar  in  thet  corner.  I'll  grease 
hit,  an*  keep  hit  loaded,  an*  when  ye  calls,  I'll  fetch  hit 
out  thar  to  ye." 

The  youth  nodded.  "I  mout  come  anytime,  but  likely 
as  not  I'll  hev  ter  come  a-fightin'  when  I  comes." 

Next,  he  produced  an  envelope. 

"This  here  is  a  letter  I've  done  writ  ter  myself,"  he 
explained.  He  drew  out  the  sheet,  and  read : 

"Samson,  come  back."  Then  he  handed  the  missive 
to  the  girl.  "Thet  there  is  addressed  ter  me,  in  care 

of  Mr.  Lescott Ef  anything  happens — 

ef  Unc*  Spicer  needs  me — I  wants  yer  ter  mail  thet 
ter  me  quick.  He  says  as  how  he  won't  never  call  me 
back,  but,  Sally,  I  wants  thet  you  shall  send  fer  me,  ef 
they  needs  me.  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  write  no  letters 
home.  Unc'  Spicer  can't  read,  an'  you  can't  read  much 
either.  But  I'll  plumb  shore  be  thinkin'  about  ye  day 
an'  night." 

She  gulped  and  nodded. 

"Yes,  Samson,"  was  all  she  said. 

The  boy  rose. 

"I  reckon  I'd  better  be  gettin'  along,"  he  announced. 

The  girl  suddenly  reached  out  both  hands,  and  seized 
his  coat.  She  held  him  tight,  and  rose,  facing  him. 
Her  upturned  face  grew  very  pallid,  and  her  eyes 
widened.  They  were  dry,  and  her  lips  were  tightly ' 
closed,  but,  through  the  tearless  pupils,  in  the  firelight, 
the  boy  could  read  her  soul,  and  her  soul  was  sobbing. 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  and  held  her  very  tight. 

"Sally,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  threatened  to  choke, 
"I  wants  ye  ter  take  keer  of  yeself.  Ye  hain't  like  these 
other  gals  round  here.  Ye  hain't  got  big  hands  an* 


feet.  Ye  kain't  stand  es  much  es  they  kin.  Don't  stay 
out  in  the  night  air  too  much — an',  Sally — fer  God's 
sake  take  keer  of  yeself !"  He  broke  off,  and  picked  up 
his  hat. 

"An'  that  gun,  Sally,"  he  repeated  at  the  door, 
"that  there's  the  most  precious  thing  I've  got.  I  loves 
hit  better  then  anything — take  keer  of  hit." 

Again,  she  caught  at  his  shoulders. 

"Does  ye  love  hit  better'n  ye  do  me,  Samson?"  she 
demanded. 

He  hesitated. 

"I  reckon  ye  knows  how  much  I  loves  ye,  Saily,"  he 
said,  slowly,  "but  I've  done  made  a  promise,  an'  thet 
gun's  a-goin'  ter  keep  hit  fer  me." 

They  went  together  out  to  the  stile,  he  still  carrying 
his  rifle,  as  though  loath  to  let  it  go,  and  she  crossed 
with  him  to  the  road. 

As  he  untied  his  reins,  she  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  for  a  long  while  they  stood  there  under  the 
clouds  and  stars,  as  he  held  her  close.  There  was  no 
eloquence  of  leave-taking,  no  professions  of  undying 
love,  for  these  two  hearts  were  inarticulate  and  dizzily 
clinging  to  a  wilderness  code  of  self-repression — and 
they  had  reached  a  point  where  speech  would  have  swept 
them  both  away  to  a  break-down. 

But  as  they  stood,  their  arms  gripping  each  other, 
each  heart  pounding  on  the  other's  breast,  it  was  with  a 
pulsing  that  spoke  in  the  torrent  their  lips  dammed, 
and  between  the  two  even  in  this  farewell  embrace  was 
the  rifle  which  stood  emblematical  of  the  man's  life  and 
mission  and  heredity.  Its  cold  metal  lay  in  a  line 
between  their  warm  breasts,  separating,  yet  uniting 


them,  and  they  clung  to  each  other  across  its  rigid  bar 
rel,  as  a  man  and  woman  may  cling  with  the  child  be 
tween  them  which  belongs  to  both,  and  makes  them  one. 
As  yet,  she  had  shed  no  tears.  Then,  he  mounted  and 
was  swallowed  in  the  dark.  It  was  not  until  the  thud  of 
his  mule's  hoofs  were  lost  in  the  distance  that  the  girl 
climbed  back  to  the  top  of  the  stile,  and  dropped  down. 
Then,  she  lifted  the  gun  and  pressed  it  close  to  her 
bosom,  and  sat  silently  sobbing  for  a  long  while. 

"He's  done  gone  away,"  she  moaned,  "an'  he  won't 
never  come  back  no  more — but  ef  he  does  come" — she 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  stars  as  though  calling  them  to 
witness — "ef  he  does  come,  I'll  shore  be  a-waitin'.  Lord 
God,  make  him  come  back !" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THF.  boy  from  Misery  rode  slowly  toward  Hixon. 
At  times,  the  moon  struggled  out  and  made  the 
shadows  black  along  the  way.  At  other  times, 
it  was  like  riding  in  a  huge  caldron  of  pitch.  When  he 
passed  into  that  stretch  of  country  at  whose  heart 
Jesse  Purvy  dwelt,  he  raised  his  voice  in  song.  His 
singing  was  very  bad,  and  the  ballad  lacked  tune,  but 
it  served  its  purpose  of  saving  him  from  the  suspicion 
of  furtiveness.  Though  the  front  of  the  house  was 
blank,  behind  its  heavy  shutters  he  knew  that  his 
coming  might  be  noted,  and  night-riding  at  this  par 
ticular  spot  might  be  misconstrued  in  the  absence  of 
frank  warning. 

The  correctness  of  his  inference  brought  a  brief  smile 
to  his  lips  when  he  crossed  the  creek  that  skirted  the 
orchard,  and  heard  a  stable  door  creak  softly  behind 
him.  He  was  to  be  followed  again — and  watched,  but 
he  did  not  look  back  or  pause  to  listen  for  the  hoof- 
beats  of  his  unsolicited  escort.  On  the  soft  mud  of  the 
I  road,  he  would  hardly  have  heard  them,  had  he  bent  his 
ear  and  drawn  rein.  He  rode  at  a  walk,  for  his  train 
would  not  leave  until  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  There 
was  time  in  plenty. 

It  was  cold  and  depressing  as  he  trudged  the  empty 
streets  from  the  livery  stable  to  the  railroad  station, 
carrying  his  saddlebags  over  his  arm.  His  last  fare- 

139 


well  had  been  taken  when  he  left  the  old  mule  behind  In 
the  rickety  livery  stable.  It  had  been  unemotional,  too, 
but  the  ragged  creature  had  raised  its  stubborn  head, 
and  rubbed  its  soft  nose  against  his  shoulder  as  though 
in  realization  of  the  parting — and  unwilling  realization. 
He  had  roughly  laid  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  the 
muzzle,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 

He  was  all  unconscious  that  he  presented  a  figure 
which  would  seem  ludicrous  in  the  great  world  to  which 
he  had  looked  with  such  eagerness.  The  lamps  burned 
murkily  about  the  railroad  station,  and  a  heavy  fog 
cloaked  the  hills.  At  last  he  heard  the  whistle  and  saw 
the  blazing  headlight,  and  a  minute  later  he  had  pushed 
his  way  into  the  smoking-car  and  dropped  his  saddle 
bags  on  the  seat  beside  him.  Then,  for  the  first  time, 
he  saw  and  recognized  his  watchers.  Purvy  meant  to 
have  Samson  shadowed  as  far  as  Lexington,  and  his 
movements  from  that  point  definitely  reported.  Jim 
Asberry  and  Aaron  Hollis  were  the  chosen  spies.  He 
did  not  speak  to  the  two  enemies  who  took  seats  across 
the  car,  but  his  face  hardened,  and  his  brows  came 
together  in  a  black  scowl. 

"When  I  gits  back,"  he  promised  himself,  "you'll  be 
one  of  the  fust  folks  I'll  look  fer,  Jim  Asberry,  damn 
ye!    All  I  hopes  is  thet  nobody  else  don't  git  ye  fust 
Ye  b'longs  ter  me." 

He  was  not  quite  certain  yet  that  Jim  Asberry  had 
murdered  his  father,  but  he  knew  that  Asberry  was  one 
of  the  coterie  of  "killers"  who  took  their  blood  hire 
from  Purvy,  and  he  knew  that  Asberry  had  sworn  to 
"git"  him.  To  sit  in  the  same  car  with  these  men  and 
to  force  himself  to  withhold  his  hand,  was  a  hard  bullet 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     141 

for  Samson  South  to  chew,  but  he  had  bided  his  time 
thus  far,  and  he  would  bide  it  to  the  end.  When  that 
end  came,  it  would  also  be  the  end  for  Purvy  and 
Asberry.  He  disliked  Hollis,  too,  but  with  a  less  definite 
and  intense  hatred.  Samson  wished  that  one  of  the 
henchmen  would  make  a  move  toward  attack.  He  made 
no  concealment  of  his  own  readiness.  He  removed  both 
overcoat  and  coat,  leaving  exposed  to  view  the  heavy 
revolver  which  was  strapped  under  his  left  arm.  He 
even  unbuttoned  the  leather  flap  of  the  holster,  and  then 
being  cleared  for  action,  sat  glowering  across  the  aisle, 
with  his  eyes  not  on  the  faces  but  upon  the  hands  of 
the  two  Purvy  spies. 

The  wrench  of  partings,  the  long  raw  ride  and  dis- 
spiriting  gloom  of  the  darkness  before  dawn  had  taken 
out  of  the  boy's  mind  all  the  sparkle  of  anticipation 
and  left  only  melancholy  and  hate.  He  felt  for  the 
moment  that,  had  these  men  attacked  him  and  thrown 
him  back  into  the  life  he  was  leaving,  back  into  the  war 
without  fault  on  his  part,  he  would  be  glad.  The  fierce 
activity  of  fighting  would  be  welcome  to  his  mood.  He 
longed  for  the  appeasement  of  a  thoroughly  satisfied 
vengeance.  But  the  two  watchers  across  the  car  were 
not  ordered  to  fight  and  so  they  made  no  move.  They 
did  not  seem  to  see  Samson.  They  did  not  appear  to 
'have  noticed  his  inviting  readiness  for  combat.  They ' 
did  not  remove  their  coats.  At  Lexington,  where  he  had 
several  hours  to  wait,  Samson  bought  a  "snack"  at  a 
restaurant  near  the  station  and  then  strolled  about  the 
adjacent  streets,  still  carrying  his  saddlebags,  for  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  workings  of  check-rooms.  When 
he  returned  to  the  depot  with  his  open  wallet  in  his 


142     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

hand,  and  asked  for  a  ticket  to  New  York,  the  agent 
looked  up  and  his  lips  unguardedly  broke  into  a  smile 
of  amusement.  It  was  a  good-humored  smile,  but  Sam 
son  saw  that  it  was  inspired  by  some  sort  of  joke,  and 
he  divined  that  the  joke  was — himself! 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  inquired  very  quietly, 
though  his  chin  stiffened.  **Don't  ye  sell  tickets  ter  New 
York?" 

The  man  behind  the  grilled  wicket  read  a  spirit  as 
swift  to  resent  ridicule  as  that  of  d'Artagnan  had  been 
when  he  rode  his  orange-colored  nag  into  the  streets  of 
Paris.  His  face  sobered,  and  his  manner  became  atten 
tive.  He  was  wondering  what  complications  lay  ahead 
of  this  raw  creature  whose  crudity  of  appearance  was 
so  at  odds  with  the  compelling  quality  of  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  want  a  Pullman  reservation?"  he  asked. 

"What's  thet?"  The  boy  put  the  question  with  a 
steadiness  of  gaze  that  seemed  to  defy  the  agent  to 
entertain  even  a  subconsciously  critical  thought  as  to 
his  ignorance. 

The  ticket  man  explained  sleeping-  and  dining-cars. 
He  had  rather  expected  the  boy  to  choose  the  day  coach, 
but  Samson  merely  said: 

"I  wants  the  best  thar  is."  He  counted  out  the 
additional  money,  and  turned  gravely  from  the  window. 
The  sleeping-car  to  which  he  was  assigned  was  almost 
empty,  but  he  felt  upon  him  the  interested  gaze  of  those 
few  eyes  that  were  turned  toward  his  entrance.  He 
engaged  every  pair  with  a  pair  very  clear  and  steady 
and  undropping,  until  somehow  each  lip  that  had  started 
to  twist  in  amusement  straightened,  and  the  twinkle 
that  rose  at  first  glance  sobered  at  second.  He  did  not 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     143 

know  why  an  old  gentleman  in  a  plaid  traveling  cap,  who 
looked  up  from  a  magazine,  turned  his  gaze  out  of  the 
window  with  an  expression  of  grave  thoughtf  ulness.  To 
himself,  the  old  gentleman  was  irrelevantly  quoting  a 
line  or  two  of  verse : 

" '.     .    .    Unmade,  unhandled,  unmeet — 
Ye  pushed  them  raw  to  the  battle,  as  ye  picked  them 
raw  from  the  street — ' 

"Only,"  added  the  old  gentleman  under  his  breath, 
"this  one  hasn't  even  the  training  of  the  streets — but 
with  those  eyes  he'll  get  somewhere." 

The  porter  paused  and  asked  to  see  Samson's  ticket. 
Mentally,  he  observed: 

"Po'  white  trash!"  Then,  he  looked  again,  for  the 
boy's  eyes  were  discomfortingly  on  his  fat,  black  face, 
and  the  porter  straightway  decided  to  be  polite.  Yet, 
for  all  his  specious  seeming  of  unconcern,  Samson  was 
waking  to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  scarecrow,  and  his 
sensitive  pride  made  him  cut  his  meals  short  in  the 
dining-car,  where  he  was  kept  busy  beating  down 
inquisitive  eyes  with  his  defiant  gaze.  He  resolved  after 
some  thought  upon  a  definite  policy.  It  was  a  very  old 
policy,  but  to  him  new — and  a  discovery.  He  would 
change  nothing  in  himself  that  involved  a  surrender  of 
code  or  conviction.  But,  wherever  it  could  be  done  with 
honor,  he  would  concede  to  custom.  He  had  come  to 
learn,  not  to  give  an  exhibition  of  stubbornness.  What 
ever  the  outside  world  could  offer  with  a  recommenda 
tion  to  his  good  sense,  that  thing  he  would  adopt  and 
make  his  own. 


14-4.     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

It  was  late  in  the  second  afternoon  when  he  stepped 
from  the  train  at  Jersey  City,  to  be  engulfed  in  an 
unimagined  roar  and  congestion.  Here,  it  was  impos 
sible  to  hold  his  own  against  the  unconcealed  laughter 
of  the  many,  and  he  stood  for  an  instant  glaring  about 
like  a  caged  tiger,  while  three  currents  of  humanity 
separated  and  flowed  toward  the  three  ferry  exits.  It 
was  a  moment  of  longing  for  the  quiet  of  his  ancient 
hills,  where  nothing  more  formidable  than  blood  enemies 
existed  to  disquiet  and  perplex  a  man's  philosophy. 
Those  were  things  he  understood — and  even  enemies  at 
home  did  not  laugh  at  a  man's  peculiarities.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  Samson  felt  a  tremor  of  something 
like  terror,  terror  of  a  great,  vague  thing,  too  vast 
and  intangible  to  combat,  and  possessed  of  the  measure 
less  power  of  many  hurricanes.  Then,  he  saw  the 
smiling  face  of  Lescott,  and  Lescott's  extended  hand. 
Even  Lescott,  immaculately  garbed  and  fur-coated, 
seemed  almost  a  stranger,  and  the  boy's  feeling  of 
intimacy  froze  to  inward  constraint  and  diffidence.  But 
Lescott  knew  nothing  of  that.  The  stoic  in  Samson 
held  true,  masking  his  emotions. 

"So  you  came,"  said  the  New  Yorker,  heartily,  grasp 
ing  the  boy's  hand.  "Where's  your  luggage?  We'll 
just  pick  that  up,  and  make  a  dash  for  the  ferry." 

"Hyar  hit  is,"  replied  Samson,  who  still  carried  his 
saddlebags.  The  painter's  eyes  twinkled,  but  the  mirth 
was  so  frank  and  friendly  that  the  boy,  instead  of 
glaring  in  defiance,  grinned  responsively. 

"Right,  oh!"  laughed  Lescott.  "I  thought  maybe 
you'd  brought  a  trunk,  but  it's  the  wise  man  who  travels 
light." 


"I  reckon  I'm  pretty  green,"  acknowledged  the  youth 
somewhat  ruefully.  "But  I  hain't  been  studyin'  on 
what  I  looked  like.  I  reckon  thet  don't  make  much 
difference." 

"Not  much,"  affirmed  the  other,  with  conviction.  "Let 
the  men  with  little  souls  spend  their  thought  on  that." 

The  artist  watched  his  protege  narrowly  as  they 
took  their  places  against  the  forward  rail  of  the  ferry- 
deck,  and  the  boat  stood  out  into  the  crashing  water 
traffic  of  North  River.  What  Samson  saw  must  be 
absolutely  bewildering.  Ears  attuned  to  hear  a  break 
ing  twig  must  ache  to  this  hoarse  shrieking  of  whistles. 
To  the  west,  in  the  evening's  fading  color,  the  sky-line 
of  lower  Manhattan  bit  the  sky  with  its  serried  line  of 
fangs. 

Yet,  Samson  leaned  on  the  rail  without  comment,  and 
his  face  told  nothing.  Lescott  waited  for  some  expres 
sion,  and,  when  none  came,  he  casually  suggested: 

"Samson,  that  is  considered  rather  an  impressive 
panorama  over  there.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

"Ef  somebody  was  ter  ask  ye  ter  describe  the  shape 
of  a  rainstorm,  what  would  ye  say  ?"  countered  the  boy. 

Lescott  laughed. 

"I  guess  I  wouldn't  try  to  say." 

"I  reckon,"  replied  the  mountaineer,  "I  won't  try, 
neither." 

"Do  you  find  it  anything  like  the  thing  expected?" 
No  New  Yorker  can  allow  a  stranger  to  be  unimpressed 
with  that  sky-line. 

"I  didn't  have  no  notion  what  to  expect."  Samson's 
voice  was  matter-of-fact.  "I  'lowed  I'd  jest  wait  and 
see." 


146     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

He  followed  Lescott  out  to  the  foot  of  Twenty-third 
Street,  and  stepped  with  him  into  the  tonneau  of  the 
painter's  waiting  car.  Lescott  lived  with  his  family 
tip-town,  for  it  happened  that,  had  his  canvases  pos 
sessed  no  value  whatever,  he  would  still  have  been  in 
a  position  to  drive  his  motor,  and  follow  his  impulses 
about  the  world.  Lescott  himself  had  found  it  neces 
sary  to  overcome  family  opposition  when  he  had  de 
termined  to  follow  the  career  of  painting.  His  people 
had  been  in  finance,  and  they  had  expected  him  to  take 
the  position  to  which  he  logically  fell  heir  in  activities 
that  center  about  Wall  Street.  He,  too,  had  at  first 
been  regarded  as  recreant  to  traditions.  For  that 
reason,  he  felt  a  full  sympathy  with  Samson.  The 
painter's  place  in  the  social  world — although  he  pre 
ferred  his  other  world  of  Art — was  so  secure  that  he 
was  free  from  any  petty  embarrassment  in  standing 
sponsor  for  a  wild  man  from  the  hills.  If  he  did  not 
take  the  boy  to  his  home,  it  was  because  he  understood 
that  a  life  which  must  be  not  only  full  of  early  embar 
rassment,  but  positively  revolutionary,  should  be  ap 
proached  by  easy  stages.  Consequently,  the  car  turned 
down  Fifth  Avenue,  passed  under  the  arch,  and  drew 
up  before  a  door  just  off  Washington  Square,  where 
the  landscape  painter  had  a  studio  suite.  There  were 
sleeping-rooms  and  such  accessories  as  seemed  to  the  boy 
unheard-of  luxury,  though  Lescott  regarded  the  place 
as  a  makeshift  annex  to  his  home  establishment. 

"You'd  better  take  your  time  in  selecting  permanent 
quarters,"  was  his  careless  fashion  of  explaining  to 
Samson.  "It's  just  as  well  not  to  hurry.  You  are  to 
stay  here  with  me,  as  long  as  you  will." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANBS     147 

i 

"I'm  sbleeged  ter  ye,"  replied  the  boy,  to  whose  train 
ing  in  «pen-doored  hospitality  the  invitation  seemed 
only  natural.  The  evening  meal  was  brought  in  from 
a  neighboring  hotel,  and  the  two  men  dined  before  an 
open  fire,  Samson  eating  in  mountain  silence,  while  his 
host  chatted  and  asked  questions.  The  place  was 
quiet  for  New  York,  but  to  Samson  it  seemed  an  insuf-l 
ferable  pandemonium.  He  found  himself  longing  for 
the  velvet-soft  quiet  of  the  nightfalls  he  had  known. 

"Samson,"  suggested  the  painter,  when  the  dinner 
things  had  been  carried  out  and  they  were  alone,  "you 
are  here  for  two  purposes:  first  to  study  painting; 
sec«nd,  to  educate  and  equip  yourself  for  coming  con 
ditions.  It's  going  to  take  work,  more  work,  and  then 
some  more  work." 

"I  hain't  skeered  of  work." 

"I  believe  that.  Also,  you  must  keep  out  of  trouble. 
You've  got  to  ride  your  fighting  instinct  with  a  strong 
curb." 

"I  don't  'low  to  let  nobody  run  over  me."  The  state 
ment  was  not  argumentative ;  only  an  announcement  of 
a  principle  which  was  not  subject  to  modification. 

"All  right,  but  until  you  learn  the  ropes,  let  me  advise 
you." 

The  boy  gazed  into  the  fire  for  a  few  moments  of* 
silence. 

"I  gives  ye  my  hand  on  thet,"  he  promised. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  painter,  having  shown  his  guest 
over  the  premises,  said  good-night,  and  went  up-town 
to  his  own  house.  Samson  lay  a  long  while  awake,  with 
many  disquieting  reflections.  Before  his  closed  eyes 
rose  insistently  the  picture  of  a  smoky  cabin  with  a 


148     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

puncheon  floor  and  of  a  girl  upon  whose  cheeks  and 
temples  flickered  orange  and  vermilion  lights.  To  his 
ears  came  the  roar  of  elevated  trains,  and,  since  a  fog 
had  risen  over  the  Hudson,  the  endless  night-splitting 
screams  of  brazen-throated  ferry  whistles.  He  tossed 
on  a  mattress  which  seemed  hard  and  comfortless,  and 
longed  for  a  feather-bed. 

"Good-night,  Sally,"  he  almost  groaned.  "I  wisht  I 
was  back  thar  whar  I  belongs."  .  .  .  And  Sally, 
more  than  a  thousand  miles  away,  was  shivering  on  the 
top  of  a  stile  with  a  white,  grief -torn  little  face,  wishing 
that,  too. 

Meanwhile  Lescott,  letting  himself  into  a  house  over 
looking  the  Park,  was  hailed  by  a  chorus  of  voices  from 
the  dining-room.  He  turned  and  went  in  to  join  a  gay 
group  just  back  from  the  opera.  As  he  thoughtfully 
mixed  himself  a  highball,  they  bombarded  him  with 
questions. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  your  barbarian  with  you?" 
demanded  a  dark-eyed  girl,  who  looked  very  much  as 
Lescott  himself  might  have  looked  had  he  been  a  girl — 
and  very  young  and  lovely.  The  painter  always 
thought  of  his  sister  as  the  family's  edition  de  luxe. 
Now,  she  flashed  on  him  an  affectionate  smile,  and  added: 
"We  have  been  waiting  to  see  him.  Must  we  go  to 
bed  disappointed?" 

George  stood  looking  down  on  them,  and  tinkled  the 
ice  in  his  glass. 

"He  wasn't  brought  on  for  purposes  of  exhibition, 
Drennie,"  he  smiled.  "I  was  afraid,  if  he  came  in  here 
in  the  fashion  of  his  arrival — carrying  his  saddlebags 
—you  ultra-civilized  folk  might  have  laughed." 


A  roar  of  laughter  at  the  picture  vindicated  Lescott's 
assumption. 

"No!  Now,  actually  with  saddlebags?"  echoed  a 
young  fellow  with  a  likeable  face  which  was  for  the 
moment  incredulously  amused.  "That  goes  Dick  Whit- 
tington  one  better.  You  do  make  some  rare  discoveries, 
George.  We  celebrate  you." 

"Thanks,  Horton,"  commented  the  painter,  dryly. 
"When  you  New  Yorkers  have  learned  what  these  bar 
barians  already  know,  the  control  of  your  over-sensitized 
risibles  and  a  courtesy  deeper  than  your  shirt-fronts — 
maybe  I'll  let  you  have  a  look.  Meantime,  I'm  much 
too  fond  of  all  of  you  to  risk  letting  you  laugh  at  my 
barbarian." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  first  peep  of  daylight  through  the  studio  sky 
light  found  the  mountain  boy  awake.  Before  the 
daylight  came  he  had  seen  the  stars  through  its 
panes.  Lescott's  servant,  temporarily  assigned  to  the 
studio,  was  still  sleeping  when  Samson  dressed  and  went 
out.  As  he  put  on  his  clothes,  he  followed  his  custom  of 
strapping  the  pistol-holster  under  his  left  armpit  out 
side  his  shirt.  He  did  it  with  no  particular  thought  and 
from  force  of  habit.  His  steps  carried  him  first  into 
Washington  Square,  at  this  cheerless  hour  empty  except 
for  a  shivering  and  huddled  figure  on  a  bench  and  a 
rattling  milk-cart.  The  boy  wandered  aimlessly  until, 
an  h»ur  later,  he  found  himself  on  Bleecker  Street,  as 
that  thoroughfare  began  to  awaken  and  take  up  its 
day's  activity.  The  smaller  shops  that  lie  in  the  shadow 
of  the  elevated  trestle  were  opening  their  doors.  Sam 
son  had  been  reflecting  on  the  amused  glances  he  had 
inspired  yesterday  and,  when  he  came  to  a  store  with 
a  tawdry  window  display  of  haberdashery  and  ready- 
made  clothing,  he  decided  to  go  in  and  investigate. 

Evidently,  the  garments  he  now  wore  gave  him  an 
appearance  of  poverty  and  meanness,  which  did  not 
comport  with  the  dignity  of  a  South.  Had  any  one 
else  criticized  his  appearance  his  resentment  would  have 
blazed,  but  he  could  make  voluntary  admissions.  The 
shopkeeper's  curiosity  was  somewhat  piqued  by  a  man- 

150 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     151 

ner  of  speech  and  appearance  which  were,  to  him,  new, 
and  which  he  could  not  classify.  His  first  impression 
of  the  boy  in  the  stained  suit,  slouch  hat,  and  patched 
overcoat,  was  much  the  same  as  that  which  the  Pullman 
porter  had  mentally  summed  up  as,  "Po'  white  trash" ; 
but  the  Yiddish  shopman  could  not  place  his  prospective 
customer  under  any  head  or  type  with  which  he  was 
familiar.  He  was  neither  "kike,"  "wop,"  "rough-neck," 
nor  beggar,  and,  as  the  proprietor  laid  out  his  wares 
with  unctuous  solicitude,  he  was,  also,  studying  his 
unresponsive  and  early  visitor.  When  Samson,  for  the 
purpose  of  trying  on  a  coat  and  vest,  took  off  his  own 
outer  garments,  and  displayed,  without  apology  or  ex 
planation,  a  huge  and  murderous-looking  revolver,  the 
merchant  became  nervously  excited.  Had  Samson  made 
gratifying  purchases,  he  might  have  seen  nothing,  but 
it  occurred  to  the  mountaineer,  just  as  he  was  counting 
money  from  a  stuffed  purse,  that  it  would  perhaps  be 
wiser  to  wait  and  consult  Lescott  in  matters  of  sartorial 
selection.  So,  with  incisive  bluntness,  he  countermanded 
his  order — and  made  an  enemy.  The  shopkeeper,  stand 
ing  at  the  door  of  his  basement  establishment,  combed 
his  beard  with  his  fingers,  and  thought  regretfully  of 
the  fat  wallet ;  and,  a  minute  after,  when  two  policemen 
'  came  by,  walking  together,  he  awoke  suddenly  to  his 
responsibilities  as  a  citizen.  He  pointed  to  the  figure 
now  half  a  block  away. 

"Dat  feller,"  he  said,  "chust  vent  out  off  my  blace. 
He's  got  a  young  cannon  strapped  to  his  vish-bone. 
I  don't  know  if  he's  chust  a  rube,  or  if  maybe  he's  bad. 
Anyway,  he's  a  gun-toter." 

The  two  patrolmen  only  nodded,  and  sauntered  on« 


152     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

They  did  not  hurry,  but  neither  did  Samson.  Pausing 
to  gaze  into  a  window  filled  with  Italian  sweetmeats,  he 
felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  turned  to  find  himself 
looking  into  two  pairs  of  accusing  eyes. 

"What's  your  game?"  shortly  demanded  one  of  the 
officers. 

"What's  ther  matter?"  countered  Samson,  as  tartly 
as  he  had  been  questioned. 

"Don't  you  know  better  than  to  tote  a  gun  around 
this  town?" 

"I  reckon  thet's  my  business,  hain't  hit?" 
The  boy  stepped  back,  and  shook  the  offending  hand 
from  his  shoulder.     His  gorge  was  rising,  but  he  con 
trolled  it,  and  turned  on  his  heel,  with  the  manner  of  one 
saying  the  final  word. 

"I  reckon  ye're  a-barkin'  up  ther  wrong  tree." 
"Not  by  a  damned  sight,  we  ain't!"     One  of  the 
patrolmen  seized  and  pinioned  his  arms,  while  the  second 
threateningly  lifted  his  club. 

"Don't  try  to  start  anything,  young  feller,"  he 
warned.  The  street  was  awake  now  and  the  ever-curious 
crowd  began  to  gather.  The  big  officer  at  Samson's 
back  held  his  arms  locked  and  gave  curt  directions  to 
his  partner.  "Go  through  him,  Quinn." 

Samson  recognized  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
law,  and  a  different  sort  of  law  from  that  which  he  had 
known  on  Misery.  He  made  no  effort  to  struggle,  but 
looked  very  straight  and  unblinkingly  into  the  eyes  of 
the  club-wielder. 

"Don't  ye  hit  me  with  thet  thing,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  warns  ye." 

The  officer  laughed  as  he  ran  his  left  hand  over  Sam- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     153 

son's  hips  and  chest,  and  brought  out  the  offending 
weapon. 

"I  guess  that's  about  all.  We'll  let  you  explain  the 
rest  of  it  to  the  judge.  It's  a  trick  on  the  Island  for 
yours." 

The  Island  meant  nothing  to  Samson  South,  but  the 
derisive  laughter  of  the  crowd,  and  the  roughness  with 
which  the  two  bluecoats  swung  him  around,  and  ordered 
him  to  march,  set  on  edge  every  defiant  nerve.  Still,  he 
gazed  directly  into  the  faces  of  his  captors,  and  inquired 
with  a  cruelly  forced  calm : 

"Does  ye  'low  ter  take  me  ter  the  jail-house?" 

"Can  that  rube  stuff.  Get  along,  get  along !"  And 
the  officers  started  him  on  his  journey  with  a  shove  that 
sent  him  lurching  and  stumbling  forward.  Then,  the 
curb  of  control  slipped.  The  prisoner  wheeled,  his  face 
distorted  with  passion,  and  lashed  out  with  his  fist  to 
the  face  of  the  biggest  patrolman.  It  was  a  foolish 
and  hopeless  attack,  as  the  boy  realized,  but  in  his  code 
it  was  necessary.  One  must  resent  gratuitous  insult 
whatever  the  odds,  and  he  fought  with  such  concentrated 
fury  and  swiftness,  after  his  rude  hill  method  of  "fist 
and  skull,"  driving  in  terrific  blows  with  hands  and 
head,  that  the  crowd  breathed  deep  with  the  delicious 
I  excitement  of  the  combat — and  regretted  its  brevity. 

The  amazed  officers,  for  an  instant  handicapped  by 
their  surprise,  since  they  were  expecting  to  monopolize 
the  brutality  of  the  occasion,  came  to  their  senses,  and 
had  instant  recourse  to  the  comforting  reinforcement 
of  their  locust  clubs.  The  boy  went  down  under  a  rat- 
tat  of  night  sticks,  which  left  him  as  groggy  and  easy 
to  handle  as  a  fainting  woman. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANBS 

"You  got  ter  hand  it  ter  dat  guy,"  commented  a 
sweater-clad  onlooker,  as  they  dragged  Samson  into  a 
doorway  to  await  the  wagon.  "He  was  goin'  some  while 
he  lasted." 

The  boy  was  conscious  again,  though  still  faint,  when 
the  desk  sergeant  wrote  on  the  station-house  blotter: 

"Carrying  a  deadly  weapon,  and  resisting  an  officer." 

The  lieutenant  had  strolled  in,  and  was  contem 
platively  turning  over  in  his  hand  the  heavy  forty-five- 
calibre  Colt. 

"Some  rod  that !"  he  announced.  "We  don't  get  many 
like  it  here.  Where  did  you  breeze  in  from,  young 
fellow?" 

"Thet's  my  business,"  growled  Samson.  Then,  he 
added:  "I'll  be  obleeged  if  ye'll  send  word  ter  Mr. 
George  Lescott  ter  come  an'  bail  me  out." 

"You  seem  to  know  the  procedure,"  remarked  the 
desk  sergeant,  with  a  smile.  "Who  is  Mr.  George  Les 
cott,  and  where's  his  hang-out?" 

One  of  the  arresting  officers  looked  up  from  wiping 
with  his  handkerchief  the  sweat-band  of  his  helmet. 

"George  Lescott?"  he  repeated.  "I  know  him.  He's 
got  one  of  them  studios  just  off  Washington  Square. 
He  drives  down-town  in  a  car  the  size  of  the  Olympic. 
I  don't  know  how  he'd  get  acquainted  with  a  boob  like 
this." 

"Oh,  well!"  the  desk  sergeant  yawned.  "Stick  him 
in  the  cage.  We'll  call  up  this  Lescott  party  later  on. 
I  guess  he's  still  in  the  hay,  and  it  might  make  him 
peevish  to  wake  him  up." 

Left  alone  in  the  police-station  cell,  the  boy  began  to 
think.  First  of  all,  he  was  puzzled.  He  had  fared 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     155 

forth  peaceably,  and  spoken  to  no  one  except  the  store 
keeper.  To  force  a  man  into  peace  by  denying  him  his 
gun,  seemed  as  unreasonable  as  to  prevent  fisticuffs  by 
cutting  off  hands.  But,  also,  a  deep  sense  of  shame 
swept  over  him,  and  scalded  him.  Getting  into  trouble 
^here  was,  somehow,  different  from  getting  into  trouble 
,at  home — and,  in  some  strange  way,  bitterly  humil 
iating. 

Lescott  had  risen  early,  meaning  to  go  down  to  the 
studio,  and  have  breakfast  with  Samson.  His  mother 
and  sister  were  leaving  for  Bermuda  by  a  nine  o'clock 
sailing.  Consequently,  eight  o'clock  found  the  house 
hold  gathered  in  the  breakfast-room,  supplemented  by 
Mr.  Wilfred  Horton,  whose  orchids  Adrienne  Lescott 
was  wearing,  and  whose  luggage  was  already  at  the 
wharf. 

"Since  Wilfred  is  in  the  party  to  take  care  of  things, 
and  look  after  you,"  suggested  Lescott,  as  he  came  into 
the  room  a  trifle  late,  "I  think  I'll  say  good-by  here, 
and  run  along  to  the  studio.  Samson  is  probably  feel 
ing  like  a  new  boy  in  school  this  morning.  You'll  find 
the  usual  litter  of  flowers  and  fiction  in  your  state 
rooms  to  attest  my  filial  and  brotherly  devotion." 

"Was  the  brotherly  sentiment  addressed  to  me?"  in 
quired  Wilfred,  with  an  unsmiling  and  brazen  gravity 
that  brought  to  the  girl's  eyes  and  lips  a  half -mocking 
and  wholly  decorative  twinkle  of  amusement. 

"Just  because  I  try  to  be  a  sister  to  you,  Wilfred," 
she  calmly  reproved,  "I  can't  undertake  to  make  my 
brother  do  it,  too.  Besides,  he  couldn't  be  a  sister  to 


you." 


'But  by  dropping  that  attitude — which  is  entirely 


156     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

gratuitous — you  will  compel  him  to  assume  it.  My 
sentiment  as  regards  brotherly  love  is  brief  and  terse, 
'Let  George  do  it !' "  Mr.  Horton  was  complacently 
consuming  his  breakfast  with  an  excellent  appetite,  to 
which  the  prospect  of  six  weeks  among  Bermuda  lilies 
with  Adrienne  lent  a  fillip. 

"So,  brother-to-be,"  he  continued,  "you  have  my  per 
mission  to  run  along  down-town,  and  feed  your  savage." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir !"  The  Lescott  butler  leaned  close 
to  the  painter's  ear,  and  spoke  with  a  note  of  apology 
as  though  deploring  the  necessity  of  broaching  such  a 
subject.  "But  will  you  kindly  speak  with  the  Macdougal 
Street  Police  Station?" 

"With  the  what?"  Lescott  turned  in  surprise,  while 
Horton  surrendered  himself  to  unrestrained  and  bois 
terous  laughter. 

"The  barbarian !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  call  that  snappy 
work.  Twelve  hours  in  New  York,  and  a  run-in  with 
the  police !  I've  noticed,"  he  added,  as  the  painter  hur 
riedly  quitted  the  room,  "that,  when  you  take  the  bad 
man  out  of  his  own  cock-pit,  he  rarely  lasts  as  far  as 
the  second  round." 

"It  occurs  to  me,  Wilfred,"  suggested  Adrienne,  with 
the  hint  of  warning  in  her  voice,  "that  you  may  be  just 
a  trifle  overdoing  your  attitude  of  amusement  as  to  this 
barbarian.  George  is  fond  of  him,  and  believes  in  him, 
and  George  is  quite  often  right  in  his  judgment." 

"George,"  added  Mrs.  Lescott,  "had  a  broken  arm 
down  there  in  the  mountains,  and  these  people  were  kind 
to  him  in  many  ways.  I  wish  I  could  see  Mr.  South, 
and  thank  him." 

Lescott's  manner  over  the  telephone  was  indicating  to 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     157 

a  surprised  desk  sergeant  a  decidedly  greater  interest 
than  had  been  anticipated,  and,  after  a  brief  and  pointed 
conversation  in  that  quarter,  he  called  another  number. 
It  was  a  private  number,  not  included  in  the  telephone 
book  and  communicated  with  the  residence  of  an 
attorney  who  would  not  have  permitted  the  generality 
of  clients  to  disturb  him  in  advance  of  office  hours. 

A  realization  that  the  "gun-lugger"  had  friends 
"higher  up"  percolated  at  the  station-house  in  another 
hour,  when  a  limousine  halted  at  the  door,  and  a  legal 
celebrity,  whose  ways  were  not  the  ways  of  police  sta 
tions  or  magistrates'  courts,  stepped  to  the  curb. 

"I  am  waiting  to  meet  Mr.  Lescott,"  announced  the 
Honorable  Mr.  Wickliffe,  curtly. 

When  a  continuance  of  the  case  had  been  secured, 
and  bond  given,  the  famous  lawyer  and  Samson  lunched 
together  at  the  studio  as  Lescott's  guests,  and,  after 
the  legal  luminary  had  thawed  the  boy's  native  reserve 
and  wrung  from  him  his  story,  he  was  interested  enough 
to  use  all  his  eloquence  and  logic  in  his  efforts  to  show 
the  mountaineer  what  inherent  necessities  of  justice  lay 
back  of  seemingly  restrictive  laws. 

"You  simply  'got  in  bad'  through  your  failure  to 
understand  conditions  here,"  laughed  the  lawyer.  "I 
guess  we  can  pull  you  through,  but  in  future  you'll 
have  to  submit  to  some  guidance,  my  boy." 

And  Samson,  rather  to  Lescott's  surprise,  nodded  his 
head  with  only  a  ghost  of  resentment.  From  friends, 
he  was  willing  to  learn. 

Lescott  had  been  afraid  that  this  initial  experience 
would  have  an  extinguishing  effect  on  Samson's  ambi 
tions.  He  half -expected  to  hear  the  dogged  announce- 


158     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

ment,  "I  reckon  I'll  go  back  home.  I  don't  b'long  hyar 
nohow."  But  no  such  remark  came. 

One  night,  they  sat  in  the  cafe  of  an  old  French 
hostelry  where,  in  the  polyglot  chatter  of  three  lan 
guages,  one  hears  much  shop  talk  of  art  and  literature. 
Between  the  mirrored  walls,  Samson  was  for  the  first 
time  glimpsing  the  shallow  sparkle  of  Bohemia.  The 
orchestra  was  playing  an  appealing  waltz.  Among  the 
diners  were  women  gowned  as  he  had  never  seen  women 
gowned  before.  They  sat  with  men,  and  met  the 
challenge  of  ardent  glances  with  dreamy  eyes.  They 
hummed  an  accompaniment  to  the  air,  and  sometimes 
loudly  and  publicly  quarreled.  But  Samson  looked  on 
as  taciturn  and  unmoved  as  though  he  had  never  dined 
elsewhere.  And  yet,  his  eyes  were  busy,  for  suddenly 
he  laid  down  his  knife,  and  picked  up  his  fork. 

"Hit  'pears  like  I've  got  a  passel  of  things  ter  I'arn," 
he  said,  earnestly.  "I  reckon  I  mout  as  well  begin  by 
1'arnin'  how  ter  eat."  He  had  heretofore  regarded  a 
fork  only  as  a  skewer  with  which  to  hold  meat  in  the 
cutting. 

Lescott  laughed. 

"Most  rules  of  social  usage,"  he  explained,  "go  back 
to  the  test  of  efficiency.  It  is  considered  good  form 
to  eat  with  the  fork,  principally  because  it  is  more 
efficient." 

The  boy  nodded. 

"All  right,"  he  acquiesced.  "You  1'arn  me  all  them 
things,  an'  I'll  be  obleeged  ter  ye.  Things  is  diff'rent 
in  diff'rent  places.  I  reckon  the  Souths  lies  a  right  ter 
behave  es  good  es  anybody." 

When  a  man,  whose  youth  and  courage  are  at  their 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     159 

zenith,  and  whose  brain  is  tuned  to  concert  pitch,  is 
thrown  neck  and  crop  out  of  squalid  isolation  into  the 
melting  pot  of  Manhattan,  puzzling  problems  of  read 
justment  must  follow.  Samson's  half -starved  mind  was 
reaching  out  squid-like  tentacles  in  every  direction.  He 
was  saying  little,  seeing  much,  not  yet  coordinating  or 
tabulating,  but  grimly  bolting  every  morsel  of  enlight 
enment.  Later,  he  would  digest;  now,  he  only  gorged. 
Before  he  could  hope  to  benefit  by  the  advanced  instruc 
tion  of  the  life-classes,  he  must  toil  and  sweat  over 
the  primer  stages  of  drawing.  Several  months  were 
spent  laboring  with  charcoal  and  paper  over  plaster 
casts  in  Lescptt's  studio,  and  Lescott  himself  played 
instructor.  When  the  skylight  darkened  with  the  com 
ing  of  evening,  the  boy  whose  mountain  nature  cried 
out  for  exercise  went  for  long  tramps  that  carried  him 
over  many  miles  of  city  pavements,  and  after  that, 
when  the  gas  was  lit,  he  turned,  still  insatiably  hungry, 
to  volumes  of  history,  and  algebra,  and  facts.  So 
gluttonous  was  his  protege's  application  that  the 
painter  felt  called  on  to  remonstrate  against  the  danger 
of  overwork.  But  Samson  only  laughed;  that  was  one 
of  the  things  he  had  learned  to  do  since  he  left  the1 
mountains. 

"I  reckon,"  he  drawled,  "that  as  long  as  I'm  at  work, 
I  kin  keep  out  of  trouble.  Seems  like  that's  the  only 

way  I  kin  do  it." 

**•#»*« 

A  sloop-rigged  boat  with  a  crew  of  two  was  dancing 
before  a  brisk  breeze  through  blue  Bermuda  waters. 
Off  to  the  right,  Hamilton  rose  sheer  and  colorful  from 
the  bay.  At  the  tiller  sat  the  white-clad  figure  of 


Adrienne  Lescott.  Puffs  of  wind  that  whipped  the 
~tautly  bellying  sheets  lashed  her  dark  hair  about  her 
face.  Her  lips,  vividly  red  like  poppy-petals,  were 
just  now  curved  into  an  amused  smile,  which  made  them 
even  more  than  ordinarily  kissable  and  tantalizing. 
Her  companion  was  neglecting  his  nominal  duty  of 
tending  the  sheet  to  watch  her. 

"Wilfred,"  she  teased,  "your  contrast  is  quite  start 
ling — and,  in  a  way,  effective.  From  head  to  foot,  you 
are  spotless  white — but  your  scowl  is  absolutely  'the 
Slackest  black  that  our  eyes  endure.'  And,"  she  added,  in 
an  injured  voice,  "I'm  sure  I've  been  very  nice  to  you." 

"I  have  not  yet  begun  to  scowl,"  he  assured  her,  and 
proceeded  to  show  what  superlatives  of  saturnine  expres 
sion  he  held  in  reserve.  "See  here,  Drennie,  I  know 
perfectly  well  that  I'm  a  sheer  imbecile  to  reveal  the 
fact  that  you've  made  me  mad.  It  pleases  you  too 
perfectly.  It  makes  you  happier  than  is  good  for  you, 
but " 

"It's  a  terrible  thing  to  make  me  happy,  isn't  it?"  she 
inquired,  sweetly. 

"Unspeakably  so,  when  you  derive  happiness  from 
the  torture  of  your  fellow-man." 

"My  brother-man,"  she  amiably  corrected  him. 

"Good  Lord !"  he  groaned  in  desperation.  "I  ought 
to  turn  cave  man,  and  seize  you  by  the  hair — and  drag 
you  to  the  nearest  minister — or  prophet,  or  whoever 
could  marry  us.  Then,  after  the  ceremony,  I  ought  to 
drag  you  to  my  own  grotto,  and  beat  you." 

"Would  I  have  to  wear  my  wedding  ring  in  my  nose  ?" 
She  put  the  question  with  the  manner  of  one  much 
interested  in  acquiring  useful  information. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS   161 

"Drennie,  for  the  nine-hundred-thousandth  time; 
simply,  in  the  interests  of  harmony  and  to  break  the 
deadlock,  will  you  marry  me?" 

"Not  this  afternoon,"  she  smiled.  "Watch  for  the 
boom !  I'm  going  to  bring  her  round." 

The  young  man  promptly  ducked  his  head,  and 
played  out  the  line,  as  the  boat  dipped  her  masthead 
waterward,  and  came  about  on  the  other  tack.  When 
the  sails  were  again  drumming  under  the  fingers  of  the 
wind,  she  added: 

"Besides,  I'm  not  sure  that  harmony  is  what  I  want." 

"You  know  you'll  have  to  marry  me  in  the  end.  Why 
not  now?"  he  persisted,  doggedly.  "We  are  simply 
wasting  our  youth,  dear." 

His  tone  had  become  so  calamitous  that  the  girl  could 
not  restrain  a  peal  of  very  musical  laughter. 

"Am  I  so  very  funny?"  he  inquired,  with  dignity. 

"You  are,  when  you  are  so  very  tragic,"  she  assured 
him. 

He  realized  that  his  temper  was  merely  a  challenge 
to  her  teasing,  and  he  wisely  fell  back  into  his  cus 
tomary  attitude  of  unruffled  insouciance. 

"Drennie,  you  have  held  me  off  since  we  were  children. 
I  believe  I  first  announced  my  intention  of  marrying 
you  when  you  were  twelve.  That  intention  remains 
unaltered,  More:  it  is  unalterable  and  inevitable.  My 
reasons  for  wanting  to  needn't  be  rehearsed.  It  would 
take  too  long.  I  regard  you  as  possessed  of  an  alert  and 
remarkable  mind — one  worthy  of  companionship  with 
my  own."  Despite  the  frivolous  badinage  of  his  words 
and  the  humorous  smile  of  his  lips,  his  eyes  hinted  at 
an  underlying  intensity.  "With  no  desire  to  flatter  or 


162     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

spoil  you,  I  find  your  personal  aspect  pleasing  enough 
to  satisfy  me.  And  then,  while  a  man  should  avoid 
emotionalism,  I  am  in  love  with  you."  He  moved  over 
to  a  place  in  the  sternsheets,  and  his  face  became  in 
tensely  earnest.  He  dropped  his  hand  over  hers  as 
it  lay  on  the  tiller  shaft.  "God  knows,  dear,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "how  much  I  love  you!" 

Her  eyes,  after  holding  his  for  a  moment,  fell  to  the 
hand  which  still  imprisoned  her  own.  She  shook  her 
head,  not  in  anger,  but  with  a  manner  of  gentle  denial, 
until  he  released  her  fingers  and  stepped  back. 

"You  are  a  dear,  Wilfred,"  she  comforted,  "and  I 
couldn't  manage  to  get  on  without  you,  but  you  aren't 
marriageable — at  least,  not  yet." 

"Why  not  ?"  he  argued.  "I've  stood  back  and  twirled 
my  thumbs  all  through  your  debut  winter.  I've  been 
Patience  without  the  comfort  of  a  pedestal.  Now,  will 
you  give  me  three  minutes  to  show  you  that  you  are  not 
acting  fairly,  or  nicely  at  all?" 

"Duck!"  warned  the  girl,  and  once  more  they  fell 
silent  in  the  sheer  physical  delight  of  two  healthy  young 
animals,  clean-blooded  and  sport-loving,  as  the  tall  jib 
swept  down ;  the  "high  side"  swept  up,  and  the  boat 
hung  for  an  exhilarating  moment  on  the  verge  of  cap 
sizing.  As  it  righted  itself  again,  like  the  craft  of  a 
daring  airman  banking  the  pylons,  the  girl  gave  him  a 
bright  nod.  "Now,  go  ahead,"  she  acceded,  "you  have 
three  minutes  to  put  yourself  in  nomination  as  the 
exemplar  of  your  age  and  times." 


CHAPTKR  XV 

THE  young  man  settled  back,  and  stuffed  tobacco 
into  a  battered  pipe.  Then,  with  a  lightness  of 
tone  which  was  assumed  as  a  defense  against  her 
mischievous  teasing,  he  began : 

"Very  well,  Drennie.  When  you  were  twelve,  which 
is  at  best  an  unimpressive  age  for  the  female  of  the 
species,  I  was  eighteen,  and  all  the  world  knows  that  at 
eighteen  a  man  is  very  mature  and  important.  You 
wore  pigtails  then,  and  it  took  a  prophet's  eye  to  fore 
see  how  wonderfully  you  were  going  to  emerge  from 
your  chrysalis." 

The  idolatry  of  his  eyes  told  how  wonderful  she 
seemed  to  him  now. 

"Yet,  I  fell  in  love  with  you,  and  I  said  to  myself, 
'I'll  wait  for  her.'  However,  I  didn't  want  to  wait 
eternally.  For  eight  years,  I  have  danced  willing 
attendance — following  you  through  nursery,  younger- 
set  and  debutante  stages.  In  short,  with  no  wish  to 
trumpet  too  loudly  my  own  virtues,  I've  been  your 
Fidus  Achates."  His  voice  dropped  from  its  pitch  of 
antic  whimsey,  and  became  for  a  moment  grave,  as  he 
added:  "And,  because  of  my  love  for  you,  I've  lived  a 
life  almost  as  clean  as  your  own." 

"One's  Fidus  Achates,  if  I  remembx. .:  anything  of 
my  Latin,  which  I  don't" — the  girl  spoke  in  that  voice 
which  the  man  loved  best,  because  it  had  left  off  banter- 

163 


164     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

ing,  and  become  grave  with  such  softness  and  depth  of 
timbre  as  might  have  trembled  in  the  reed  pipes  of  a 
Sylvan  Pan — "is  one's  really-truly  friend.  Everything 
that  you  claim  for  yourself  is  admitted — and  many 
other  things  that  you  haven't  claimed.  Now,  suppose 
you  give  me  three  minutes  to  make  an  accusation  on 
other  charges.  They're  not  very  grave  faults,  perhaps, 
by  the  standards  of  your  world  and  mine,  but  to  me, 
personally,  they  seem  important." 

Wilfred  nodded,  and  said,  gravely: 

"I  am  waiting." 

"In  the  first  place,  you  are  one  of  those  men  whose 
fortunes  are  listed  in  the  top  schedule — the  swollen 
fortunes.  Socialists  would  put  you  in  the  predatory 
class." 

"Drennie,"  he  groaned,  "do  you  keep  your  heaven 
locked  behind  a  gate  of  the  Needle's  Eye?  It's  not  my 
fault  that  I'm  rich.  It  was  wished  on  me.  If  you  are 
serious,  I'm  willing  to  become  poor  as  Job's  turkey. 
Show  me  the  way  to  strip  myself,  and  I'll  stand  shortly 
before  you  begging  alms." 

"To  what  end?"  she  questioned.  "Poverty  would  be 
quite  inconvenient.  I  shouldn't  care  for  it.  But  hasn't 
it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  the  man  who  wears  the 
strongest  and  brightest  mail,  and  who  by  his  own  con 
fession  is  possessed  of  an  alert  brain,  ought  occasionally 
to  be  seen  in  the  lists?" 

"In  short,  your  charge  is  that  I  am  a  shirker — and, 
since  it's  the  same  thing,  a  coward?" 

Adrienne  did  not  at  once  answer  him,  but  she 
straightened  out  for  an  uninterrupted  run  before  the 
wind,  and  by  the  tiny  moss-green  flecks,  which  moments 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     165 

of  great  seriousness  brought  to  the  depths  of  her  eyes, 
he  knew  that  she  meant  to  speak  the  unveiled  truth. 

"Besides  your  own  holdings  in  a  lot  of  railways  and 
things,  you  handle  your  mother's  and  sisters'  property, 
don't  you?" 

He  nodded. 

"In  a  fashion,  I  do.  I  sign  the  necessary  papers 
when  the  lawyers  call  me  up,  and  ask  me  to  come  down 
town." 

"You  are  a  director  in  the  Metropole  Trust  Com 
pany  ?" 

"Guilty." 

"In  the  Consolidated  Seacoast?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"In  a  half-dozen  other  things  equally  important?" 

"Good  Lord,  Drennie,  how  can  I  answer  all  those 
questions  off-hand?  I  don't  carry  a  note-book  in  my 
yachting  flannels." 

Her  voice  was  so  serious  that  he  wondered  if  it  were 
not,  also,  a  little  contemptuous. 

"Do  you  have  to  consult  a  note-book  to  answer  those 
questions  ?" 

"Those  directorate  jobs  are  purely  honorary,"  he 
defended.  "If  I  butted  in  with  fool  suggestions,  they'd 
{quite  properly  kick  me  out." 

"With  your  friends,  who  are  also  share-holders,  you 
could  assume  control  of  the  Morning  Intelligence, 
couldn't  you?" 

"I  guess  I  could  assume  control,  but  what  would  I 
do  with  it?" 

"Do  you  know  the  reputation  of  that  newspaper?" 

"I  guess  it's  all  right.     It's  conservative  and  newsy. 


166     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

I  read  it  every  morning  when  I'm  in  town.  It  fits  in 
very  nicely  between  the  grapefruit  and  the  bacon-and- 
eggs." 

"It  is,  also,  powerful,"  she  added,  "and  is  said  to  be 
absolutely  servile  to  corporate  interests." 

"Drennie,  you  talk  like  an  anarchist.  You  are  rich 
yourself,  you  know." 

"And,  against  each  of  those  other  concerns,  various 
charges  have  been  made." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"It's  not  what  I  want  you  to  do,"  she  informed  him ; 
"it's  what  I'd  like  to  see  you  want  to  do." 

"Name  it !    I'll  want  to  do  it  forthwith." 

"I  think,  when  you  are  one  of  a  handful  of  the 
richest  men  in  New  York;  when,  for  instance,  you  could 
dictate  the  policy  of  a  great  newspaper,  yet  know  it 
only  as  the  course  that  follows  your  grapefruit,  you 
are  a  shirker  and  a  drone,  and  are  not  playing  the 
game."  Her  hand  tightened  on  the  tiller.  "I  think,  if 
I  were  a  man  riding  on  to  the  polo  field,  I'd  either  try 
like  the  devil  to  drive  the  ball  down  between  the  posts, 
or  I'd  come  inside,  and  take  off  my  boots  and  colors. 
I  wouldn't  hover  in  lady-like  futility  around  the  edge 
of  the  scrimmage." 

She  knew  that  to  Horton,  who  played  polo  like  a 
fiend  incarnate,  the  figure  would  be  effective,  and  she 
whipped  out  her  words  with  something  very  close  to 
scorn. 

"Duck  your  head!"  she  commanded  shortly.  "I'm 
coming  about." 

Possibly,  she  had  thrown  more  of  herself  into  her 
philippic  than  she  had  realized.  Possibly,  some  of  her 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     167 

emphasis  imparted  itself  to  her  touch  on  the  tiller,  and 
jerked  the  sloop  too  violently  into  a  sudden  puff  as  it 
careened.  At  all  events,  the  boat  swung  sidewise, 
trembled  for  an  instant  like  a  wounded  gull,  and  then 
slapped  its  spread  of  canvas  prone  upon  the  water 
»with  a  vicious  report. 

"Jump !"  yelled  the  man,  and,  as  he  shouted,  the  girl 
disappeared  over-side,  perilously  near  the  sheet.     He 
knew  the  danger  of  coming  up  under  a  wet  sail,  and, 
diving  from  the  high  side,  he  swam  with  racing  strokes 
toward  the  point  where  she  had  gone  down.     When 
Adrienne's  head  did  not  reappear,  his  alarm  grew,  and 
he  plunged  under  water  where  the  shadow  of  the  over 
turned  boat  made  everything  cloudy  and  obscure  to  his 
wide-open  eyes.     He  stroked  his  way  back  and  forth 
through  the  purple  fog  that  he  found  down  there,  until 
his  lungs  seemed  on  the  point  of  bursting.     Then,  he 
paused  at  the  surface,  shaking  the  water  from  his  face, 
and  gazing  anxiously  about.     The  dark  head  was  not 
visible,  and  once  more,  with  a  fury  of  growing  terror, 
he  plunged  downward,  and  began  searching  the  shadows. 
This  time,  he  remained  until  his  chest  was  aching  with 
an  absolute  torture.    If  she  had  swallowed  water  under 
that  canvas  barrier  this  attempt  would  be  the  last  that 
could  avail.    Then,  just  as  it  seemed  that  he  was  spend« 
ing  the  last  fraction  of  the  last  ounce  of  endurance,, 
his  aching  eyes  made  out  a  vague  shape,  also  swimming, 
and  his  hand  touched  another  hand.    She  was  safe,  and 
together  they  came  out  of  the  opaqueness  into  water 
as  translucent  as  sapphires,  and  rose  to  the  surface. 
"Where  were  you?"  she  inquired. 
"I  was  looking  for  you — under  the  sail,"  he  panted. 


Adrienne  laughed. 

"I'm  quite  all  right,"  she  assured  him.  "I  came  up 
under  the  boat  at  first,  but  I  got  out  easily  enough,  and 
went  back  to  look  for  you." 

They  swam  together  to  the  capsized  hull,  and  the 
girl  thrust  up  one  strong,  slender  hand  to  the  stem, 
while  with  the  other  she  wiped  the  water  from  her 
smiling  eyes.  The  man  also  laid  hold  on  the  support, 
and  hung  there,  filling  his  cramped  lungs.  Then,  for 
just  an  instant,  his  hand  closed  over  hers. 

"There's  my  hand  on  it,  Drennie,"  he  said.  "We 
start  back  to  New  York  to-morrow,  don't  we?  Well, 
when  I  get  there,  I  put  on  overalls,  and  go  to  work. 
When  I  propose  next,  I'll  have  something  to  show." 

A  motor-boat  had  seen  their  plight,  and  was  racing 
madly  to  their  rescue,  with  a  yard-high  swirl  of  water 
thrown  up  from  its  nose  and  a  fusillade  of  explosions 

trailing  in  its  wake. 

****** 

Christmas  came  to  Misery  wrapped  in  a  drab  mantle 
of  desolation.  The  mountains  were  like  gigantic  cones 
of  raw  and  sticky  chocolate,  except  where  the  snow  lay 
patched  upon  their  cheerless  slopes.  The  skies  were 
low  and  leaden,  and  across  their  gray  stretches  a  spirit 
of  squalid  melancholy  rode  with  the  tarnished  sun. 
Windowless  cabins,  with  tight-closed  doors,  became 
cavernous  dens  untouched  by  the  cleansing  power  of 
daylight.  In  their  vitiated  atmosphere,  their  humanity 
grew  stolidly  sullen.  Nowhere  was  a  hint  of  the  season's 
cheer.  The  mountains  knew  only  of  such  celebration 
as  snuggling  close  to  the  jug  of  moonshine,  and  drink 
ing  out  the  day.  Mountain  children,  who  had  never 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     169 

heard  of  Kris  Kingle,  knew  of  an  ancient  tradition  that 
at  Christmas  midnight  the  cattle  in  the  barns  and  fields 
knelt  down,  as  they  had  knelt  around  the  manger,  and 
that  along  the  ragged  slopes  of  the  hills  the  elder  bushes 
ceased  to  rattle  dead  stalks,  and  burst  into  white  sprays 
of  momentary  bloom. 

Christmas  itself  was  a  week  distant,  and,  at  the  cabin 
of  the  Widow  Miller,  Sally  was  sitting  alone  before  the 
logs.  She  laid  down  the  slate  and  spelling-book,  over 
which  her  forehead  had  been  strenuously  puckered,  and 
gazed  somewhat  mournfully  into  the  blaze.  Sally  had 
a  secret.  It  was  a  secret  which  she  based  on  a  faint 
hope.  If  Samson  should  come  back  to  Misery,  he  would 
come  back  full  of  new  notions.  No  man  had  ever  yet 
returned  from  that  outside  world  unaltered.  No  man 
ever  would.  A  terrible  premonition  said  he  would  not 
come  at  all,  but,  if  he  did — if  he  did — she  must  know 
how  to  read  and  write.  Maybe,  when  she  had  learned 
a  little  more,  she  might  even  go  to  school  for  a  term 
or  two.  She  had  not  confided  her  secret.  The  widow 
would  not  have  understood.  The  book  and  slate  came 
out  of  their  dusty  cranny  in  the  logs  beside  the  fireplace 
only  when  the  widow  had  withdrawn  to  her  bed,  and 
the  freckled  boy  was  dreaming  of  being  old  enough  to 
kill  Hollmans. 

The  cramped  and  distorted  chirography  on  the  slate 
was  discouraging.  It  was  all  proving  very  hard  work. 
The  girl  gazed  for  a  time  at  something  she  saw  in  the 
embers,  and  then  a  faint  smile  came  to  her  lips.  By  next 
Christmas,  she  would  surprise  Samson  with  a  letter. 
It  should  be  well  written,  and  every  "hain't"  should  be 
an  "isn't."  Of  course,  until  then  Samson  would  not 


170     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

write  to  her,  because  he  would  not  know  that  she  could 
read  the  letter — indeed,  as  yet  the  deciphering  of  "hand- 
write"  was  beyond  her  abilities. 

She  rose  and  replaced  the  slate  and  primer.  Then, 
she  took  tenderly  from  its  corner  the  rifle,  which  the 
boy  had  confided  to  her  keeping,  and  unwrapped  its 
greasy  covering.  She  drew  the  cartridges  from  cham 
ber  and  magazine,  oiled  the  rifling,  polished  the  lock, 
and  reloaded  the  piece. 

"Thar  now,"  she  said,  softly,  "I  reckon  ther  old 
rifle-gun's  ready." 

As  she  sat  there  alone  in  the  shuck-bottomed  chair, 
the  corners  of  the  room  wavered  in  huge  shadows,  and 
the  smoke-blackened  cavern  of  the  fireplace,  glaring 
like  a  volcano  pit,  threw  her  face  into  relief.  She  made 
a  very  lovely  and  pathetic  picture.  Her  slender  knees 
were  drawn  close  together,  and  from  her  slim  waist  she 
bent  forward,  nursing  the  inanimate  thing  which  she 
valued  and  tended,  because  Samson  valued  it.  Her  violet 
eyes  held  the  heart-touching  wistfulness  of  utter  lone 
liness,  and  her  lips  drooped.  This  small  girl,  dreaming 
her  dreams  of  hope  against  hope,  with  the  vast  isolation 
of  the  hills  about  her,  was  a  little  monument  of  unflinch 
ing  loyalty  and  simple  courage,  and,  as  she  sat,  she 
patted  the  rifle  with  as  soft  a  touch  as  though  she  had 
been  dandling  Samson's  child — and  her  own — on  her 
knee.  There  was  no  speck  of  rust  in  the  unused  muzzle, 
no  hitch  in  the  easily  sliding  mechanism  of  the  breech 
block.  The  hero's  weapon  was  in  readiness  to  his 
hand,  as  the  bow  of  Ulysses  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
wanderer. 

Then,  with  sudden  interruption  to  her  reflections, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     171 

came  a  rattling  on  the  cabin  door.  She  sat  up  and  lis 
tened.  Night  visitors  were  rare  at  the  Widow  Miller's. 
Sally  waited,  holding  her  breath,  until  the  sound  was 
repeated. 

"Who  is  hit?"  she  demanded  in  a  low  voice. 

"Hit's  me — Tam'rack !"  came  the  reply,  very  low  and 
cautious,  and  somewhat  shamefaced. 

"What  does  ye  want  ?" 

"Let  me  in,  Sally,"  whined  the  kinsman,  desperately. 
"They're  atter  me.  They  won't  think  to  come  hyar." 

Sally  had  not  seen  her  cousin  since  Samson  had  for 
bidden  his  coming  to  the  house.  Since  Samson's  de 
parture,  the  troublesome  kinsman,  too,  had  been  some 
where  "down  below,"  holding  his  railroad  job.  But 
the  call  for  protection  was  imperative.  She  set  the 
gun  out  of  sight  against  the  mantle-shelf,  and,  walking 
over  unwillingly,  opened  the  door. 

The  mud-spattered  man  came  in,  glancing  about  him 
half-furtively,  and  went  to  the  fireplace.  There,  he 
held  his  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"Hit's  cold  outdoors,"  he  said. 

"What  manner  of  deviltry  hev  ye  been  into  now, 
Tam'rack?"  inquired  the  girl.  "Kain't  ye  never  keep 
outen  trouble?" 

The  self-confessed  refugee  did  not  at  once  reply, 
When  he  did,  it  was  to  ask: 

"Is  the  widder  asleep?" 

Sally  saw  from  his  blood-shot  eyes  that  he  had  been 
drinking  heavily.  She  did  not  resume  her  seat,  but 
atood  holding  him  with  her  eyes.  In  them,  the  man 
read  contempt,  and  an  angry  flush  mounted  to  his  sal 
low  cheek-bones. 


172     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBEKLANDS 

"I  reckon  ye  knows,"  went  on  the  girl  in  the  same 
steady  voice,  "thet  Samson  meant  what  he  said  when 
he  warned  ye  ter  stay  away  from  hyar.  I  reckon  ye 
knows  I  wouldn't  never  hev  opened  thet  door,  ef  hit 
wasn't  fer  ye  bein'  in  trouble." 

The  mountaineer  straightened  up,  his  eyes  burning 
with  the  craftiness  of  drink,  and  the  smoldering  of 
resentment. 

"I  reckon  I  knows  thet.  Thet's  why  I  said  they  was 
atter  me.  I  hain't  in  no  trouble,  Sally.  I  jest  come 
hyar  ter  see  ye,  thet's  all." 

Now,  it  was  the  girl's  eyes  that  flashed  anger.  With 
quick  steps,  she  reached  the  door,  and  threw  it  open. 
Her  hand  trembled  as  she  pointed  out  into  the  night, 
and  the  gusty  winter's  breath  caught  and  whipped  her 
calico  skirts  about  her  ankles. 

"You  kin  go!"  she  ordered,  passionately.  "Don't 
ye  never  cross  this  doorstep  ag'in.  Begone  quick !" 

But  Tamarack  only  laughed  with  easy  insolence. 

"Sally,"  he  drawled.  "Thar's  a-goin'  ter  be  a  dancin* 
party  Christmas  night  over  ter  the  Forks.  I  'lowed  I'd 
like  ter  hev  ye  go  over  thar  with  me." 

Her  voice  was  trembling  with  white-hot  indignation. 

"Didn't  ye  hear  Samson  say  ye  wasn't  never  ter  speak 
ter  me?"  , 

"Ter  hell  with  Samson !"  he  ripped  out,  furiously. ' 
"Nobody  hain't  pesterin'  'bout  him.    I  don't  allow  Sam 
son,  ner  no  other  man,  ter  dictate  ter  me  who  I  keeps 
company  with.    I  likes  ye,  Sally.    Ye're  the  purtiest  gal 
in  the  mountings,  an' " 

"Will  ye  git  out,  or  hev  I  got  ter  drive  ye?"  inter- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     173 

*upted  the  girl.  Her  face  paled,  and  her  lips  drew 
themselves  into  a  taut  line. 

"Will  ye  go  ter  the  party  with  me,  Sally?"  He  came 
insolently  over,  and  stood  waiting,  ignoring  her  dis 
missal  with  the  ease  of  braggart  effrontery.  She,  in 
turn,  stood  rigid,  wordless,  pointing  his  way  across  the 
doorstep.  Slowly,  the  drunken  face  lost  its  leering  grin. 
The  eyes  blackened  into  a  truculent  and  venomous  scowl. 
He  stepped  over,  and  stood  towering  above  the  slight 
figure,  which  did  not  give  back  a  step  before  his  advance. 
With  an  oath,  he  caught  her  savagely  in  his  arms,  and 
crushed  her  to  him,  while  his  unshaven,  whiskey-soaked 
lips  were  pressed  clingingly  against  her  own  indignant 
ones.  Too  astonished  for  struggle,  the  girl  felt  herself 
grow  faint  in  his  loathsome  embrace,  while  to  her  ears 
came  his  panted  words: 

"I'll  show  ye.    I  wants  ye,  an'  I'll  git  ye." 

Adroitly,  with  a  regained  power  of  resistance  and  a 
lithe  twist,  she  slipped  out  of  his  grasp,  hammering  at 
his  face  futilely  with  her  clenched  fists. 

"I — I've  got  a  notion  ter  kill  ye !"  she  cried,  brokenly. 
"Ef  Samson  was  hyar,  ye  wouldn't  dare — "  What  else 
she  might  have  said  was  shut  off  in  stormy,  breathless 
gasps  of  humiliation  and  anger. 

"Well,"  replied  Tamarack,  with  drawling  confidence, 
"ef  Samson  was  hyar,  I'd  show  him,  too — damn  him! 
But  Samson  hain't  hyar.  He  won't  never  be  hyar  no 
more."  His  voice  became  deeply  scornful,  as  he  added : 
"He's  done  cut  an'  run.  He's  down  thar  below,  con- 
sortin'  with  f  urriners,  an'  he  hain't  thinkin'  nothin'  'bout 
you.  You  hain't  good  enough  fer  Samson,  Sally.  I 
tells  ye  he's  done  left  ye  fer  all  time." 


174     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Sally  had  backed  away  from  the  man,  until  she  stood 
trembling  near  the  hearth.  As  he  spoke,  Tamarack  was 
slowly  and  step  by  step  following  her  up.  In  his  eyes 
glittered  the  same  light  that  one  sees  in  those  of  a  cat 
which  is  watching  a  mouse  already  caught  and  crippled. 

She  half-reeled,  and  stood  leaning  against  the  rough 
stones  of  the  fireplace.  Her  head  was  bowed,  and  her 
bosom  heaving  with  emotion.  She  felt  her  knees  weak 
ening  under  her,  and  feared  they  would  no  longer  sup 
port  her.  But,  as  her  cousin  ended,  with  a  laugh,  she 
turned  her  back  to  the  wall,  and  stood  with  her 
downstretched  hands  groping  against  the  logs.  Then, 
she  saw  the  evil  glint  in  Tamarack's  blood-shot  eyes.  He 
took  one  slow  step  forward,  and  held  out  his  arms. 

"Will  ye  come  ter  me?"  he  commanded,  "or  shall  I 
come  an'  git  ye?"  The  girl's  fingers  at  that  instant 
fell  against  something  cooling  and  metallic.  It  was 
Samson's  rifle. 

With  a  sudden  cry  of  restored  confidence  and  a  dan 
gerous  up-leaping  of  light  in  her  eyes,  she  seized  and 
cocked  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  girl  stepped  forward,  and  held  the  weapon 
finger  on  trigger,  close  to  her  cousin's  chest. 

"Ye  lies,  Tam'rack,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low 
and  steady  voice — a  voice  that  could  not  be  mistaken, 
a  voice  relentlessly  resolute  and  purposeful. 

"Ye  lies  like  ye  always  lies.  Yore  heart's  black  an* 
dirty.  Ye're  a  murderer  an'  a  coward.  Samson's 
a-comin'  back  ter  me.  .  .  .  I'm  a-goin'  ter  be  Sam 
son's  wife."  The  tensity  of  her  earnestness  might  have 
told  a  subtler  psychologist  than  Tamarack  that  she 
*yas  endeavoring  to  convince  herself.  "He  hain't  never 
run  away.  He's  hyar  in  this  room  right  now."  The 
mountaineer  started,  and  cast  an  apprehensive  glance 
about  him.  The  girl  laughed,  with  a  deeply  bitter  note, 
then  she  went  on : 

"Oh,  you  can't  see  him,  Tam'rack.  Ye  mout  hunt 
all  night,  but  wharever  I  be,  Samson's  thar,  too.  I 
hain't  nothin'  but  a  part  of  Samson — an'  I'm  mighty 
nigh  ter  killin'  ye  this  minute — he'd  do  hit,  I  reckon." 

"Come  on  now,  Sally,"  urged  the  man,  ingratiatingly. 
He  was  thoroughly  cowed,  seeking  compromise.  A  fool 
woman  with  a  gun :  every  one  knew  it  was  a  dangerous 
combination,  and,  except  for  himself,  no  South  had 
ever  been  a  coward.  He  knew  a  certain  glitter  in  their 
eyes.  He  knew  it  was  apt  to  presage  death,  and  this 
girl,  trembling  in  her  knees  but  holding  that  muzzle 

175 


176     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

against  his  chest  so  unwaveringly,  as  steady  as  granite, 
had  it  in  her  pupils.  Her  voice  held  an  inexorable 
monotony  suggestive  of  tolling  bells.  She  was  not  the 
Sally  he  had  known  before,  but  a  new  Sally,  acting 
under  a  quiet  sort  of  exaltation,  capable  of  anything. 
He  knew  that,  should  she  shoot  him  dead  there  in  her 
house,  no  man  who  knew  them  both  would  blame  her. 
His  life  depended  on  strategy.  "Come  on,  Sally,"  he 
whined,  as  his  face  grew  ashen.  "I  didn't  aim  ter  make 
ye  mad.  I  jest  lost  my  head,  an*  made  love  ter  ye.  Hit 
hain't  no  sin  ter  kiss  a  feller's  own  cousin."  He  was 
edging  toward  the  door. 

"Stand  where  ye're  at,"  ordered  Sally,  in  a  voice  of 
utter  loathing,  and  he  halted.  "Hit  wasn't  jest  kissin' 
me — "  She  broke  off,  and  shuddered  again.  "I  said 
thet  Samson  was  in  this  here  room.  Ef  ye  moves  twell 
I  tells  ye  ye  kin,  ye'll  hear  him  speak  ter  ye,  an'  ef  he 
speaks  ye  won't  never  hear  nothin'  more.  This  here 
is  Samson's  gun.  I  reckon  he'll  tell  me  ter  pull  the  trig 
ger  terectly!" 

"Fer  God's  sake,  Sally!"  implored  the  braggart. 
"Fer  God's  sake,  look  over  what  I  done.  I  knows  ye're 

Samson's  gal.     I " 

"Shet  up!"  she  said,  quietly;  and  his  voice  died 
instantly. 

"Yes,  I'm  Samson's  gal,  an'  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  kill 
ye  this  time,  Tam'rack,  unlessen  ye  makes  me  do  hit. 
But,  ef  ever  ye  crosses  that  stile  out  thar  ag'in,  so 
help  me  God,  this  gun  air  goin'  ter  shoot." 

Tamarack  licked  his  lips.  They  had  grown  dry.  He 
had  groveled  before  a  girl — but  he  was  to  be  spared. 
That  was  the  essential  thing. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     177 

"I  promises,"  he  said,  and  turned,  much  sobered,  to 
the  door. 

Sally  stood  for  a  while,  listening  until  she  heard  the 
slopping  hoof-beats  of  his  retreat,  then  she  dropped 
limply  into  the  shaky  shuck-bottomed  chair,  and  sat 
staring  straight  ahead,  with  a  dazed  and  almost  mortal 
hurt  in  her  eyes.  It  was  a  trance-like  attitude,  and  the 
gesture  with  which  she  several  times  wiped  her  calico 
sleeve  across  the  lips  his  kisses  had  defiled,  seemed  sub 
conscious.  At  last,  she  spoke  aloud,  but  in  a  far-away 
voice,  shaking  her  head  miserably. 

"I  reckon  Tam'rack's  right,"  she  said.  "Samson 
won't  hardly  come  back.  Why  would  he  come  back?" 

«f3f  flf,  «fc  fjf  .-•-. 

«T"  ™  ™  ™  ™ 

The  normal  human  mind  is  a  reservoir,  which  fills  at 
a  rate  of  speed  regulated  by  the  number  and  calibre 
of  its  feed  pipes.  Samson's  mind  had  long  been  almost 
empty,  and  now  from  so  many  sources  the  waters  of 
new  things  were  rushing  in  upon  it  that  under  their 
pressure  it  must  fill  fast,  or  give  away. 

He  was  saved  from  hopeless  complications  of  thought 
by  a  sanity  which  was  willing  to  assimilate  without  too 
much  effort  to  analyze.  That  belonged  to  the  future. 
Just  now,  all  was  marvelous.  What  miracles  around 
him  were  wrought  out  of  golden  virtue,  and  what  out? 
of  brazen  vice,  did  not  as  yet  concern  him.  New  worlds* 
are  not  long  new  worlds.  The  boy  from  Misery  was 
presently  less  bizarre  to  the  eye  than  many  of  the 
unkempt  bohemians  he  met  in  the  life  of  the  studios: 
men  who  quarreled  garrulously  over  the  end  and  aim 
of  Art,  which  they  spelled  with  a  capital  A — and,  for 
the  most  part,  knew  nothing  of.  He  retained,  except 


178     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

within  a  small  circle  of  intimates,  a  silence  that  passed 
for  taciturnity,  and  a  solemnity  of  visage  that  was  often 
construed  into  surly  egotism. 

He  still  wore  his  hair  long,  and,  though  his  conver 
sation  gradually  sloughed  off  much  of  its  idiom  and 
vulgarism,  enough  of  the  mountaineer  stood  out  to  lend 
to  his  personality  a  savor  of  the  crudely  picturesque. 

Meanwhile,  he  drew  and  read  and  studied  and  walked 
and  every  day's  advancement  was  a  forced  march.  The 
things  that  he  drew  began  by  degrees  to  resolve  them 
selves  into  some  faint  similitude  to  the  things  from  which 
he  draw  them.  The  stick  of  charcoal  no  longer  insisted 
on  leaving  in  the  wake  of  its  stroke  smears  like  soot. 
It  began  to  be  governable.  But  it  was  the  fact  that 
Samson  saw  things  as  they  were  and  insisted  on  trying 
to  draw  them  just  as  he  saw  them,  which  best  pleased  his 
sponsor.  During  those  initial  months,  except  for  his 
long  tramps,  occupied  with  thoughts  of  the  hills  and 
the  Widow  Miller's  cabin,  his  life  lay  between  Les- 
cott's  studio  and  the  cheap  lodgings  which  he  had  taken 
near  by.  Sometimes  while  he  was  bending  toward  his 
easel  there  would  rise  before  his  imagination  the  dark 
unshaven  countenance  of  Jim  Asberry.  At  such  mo 
ments,  he  would  lay  down  the  charcoal,  and  his  eyes 
would  cloud  into  implacable  hatred.  "I  hain't  f  ergot  ye, 
Pap,"  he  would  mutter,  with  the  fervor  of  a  renewed 
vow.  With  the  speed  of  a  clock's  minute  hand,  too 
gradual  to  be  seen  by  the  eye,  yet  so  fast  that  it  soon 
circles  the  dial,  changes  were  being  wrought  in  the  raw 
material  called  Samson  South.  One  thing  did  not 
change.  In  every  crowd,  he  found  himself  searching 
hungrily  for  the  face  of  Sally,  which  he  knew  he  could 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     179 

not  find.  Always,  there  was  the  unadmitted,  yet  haunt 
ing,  sense  of  his  own  rawness.  For  life  was  taking  off 
his  rough  edges — and  there  were  many — and  life  went 
about  the  process  in  workmanlike  fashion,  with  sand 
paper.  The  process  was  not  enjoyable,  and,  though  the 
man's  soul  was  made  fitter,  it  was  also  rubbed  raw. 
Lescott,  tremendously  interested  in  his  experiment, 
began  to  fear  that  the  boy's  too  great  somberness  of 
disposition  would  defeat  the  very  earnestness  from  which 
it  sprang.  So,  one  morning,  the  landscape-maker  went 
to  the  telephone,  and  called  for  the  number  of  a  friend 
whom  he  rightly  believed  to  be  the  wisest  man,  and  the 
greatest  humorist,  in  New  York.  The  call  brought  no 
response,  and  the  painter  dried  his  brushes,  and  turned 
up  Fifth  Avenue  to  an  apartment  hotel  in  a  cross  street, 
where  on  a  certain  door  he  rapped  with  all  the  elaborate 
formula  of  a  secret  code.  Very  cautiously,  the  door 
opened,  and  revealed  a  stout  man  with  a  humorous, 
clean-shaven  face.  On  a  table  lay  a  scattered  sheaf  of 
rough  and  yellow  paper,  penciled  over  in  a  cramped  and 
interlined  hand.  The  stout  man's  thinning  hair  was 
rumpled  over  a  perspiring  forehead.  Across  the  carpet 
was  a  worn  stretch  that  bespoke  much  midnight  pacing. 
The  signs  were  those  of  authorship. 

"Why  didn't  you  answer  your  'phone?"  smiled  Les 
cott,  though  he  knew. 

The  stout  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  pointed 
to  the  wall,  where  the  disconnected  receiver  was  hang 
ing  down.  "Necessary  precaution  against  creditors," 
he  explained.  "I  am  out — except  to  you." 

"Busy?"  interrogated  Lescott.  "You  seem  to  have 
a  manuscript  in  the  making." 


180     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"No."  The  stout  man's  face  clouded  with  black  fore* 
boding.  "I  shall  never  write  another  story.  I'm  played 
out."  He  turned,  and  restively  paced  the  worn  carpet, 
pausing  at  the  window  for  a  despondent  glance  across 
the  roofs  and  chimney  pots  of  the  city.  Lescott,  with 
the  privilege  of  intimacy,  filled  his  pipe  from  the  writer's 
tobacco  jar. 

"I  want  your  help.  I  want  you  to  meet  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  take  him  under  your  wing  in  a  fashion.  He 
needs  you." 

The  stout  man's  face  again  clouded.  A  few  years 
ago,  he  had  been  peddling  his  manuscripts  with  the 
heart-sickness  of  unsuccessful  middle  age.  To-day,  men 
coupled  his  name  with  those  of  Kipling  and  De  Maupas 
sant.  One  of  his  antipathies  was  meeting  people  who 
sought  to  lionize  him.  Lescott  read  the  expression,  and, 
before  his  host  had  time  to  object,  swept  into  his  recital. 

At  the  end  he  summarized: 

"The  artist  is  much  like  the  setter-pup.  If  it's  in 
him,  it's  as  instinctive  as  a  dog's  nose.  But  to  become 
efficient  he  must  go  a-field  with  a  steady  veteran  of  his 
own  breed." 

"I  know !"  The  great  man,  who  was  also  the  simple 
man,  smiled  reminiscently.  "They  tried  to  teach  me  to 
herd  sheep  when  my  nose  was  itching  for  bird  country. 
Bring  on  your  man ;  I  want  to  know  him." 

Samson  was  told  nothing  of  the  benevolent  conspiracy, 
but  one  evening  shortly  later  he  found  himself  sitting 
at  a  cafe  table  with  his  sponsor  and  a  stout  man,  almost 
as  silent  as  himself.  The  stout  man  responded  with 
something  like  churlish  taciturnity  to  the  half-dozen 
men  and  women  who  came  over  with  flatteries.  But 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     181 

later,  when  the  trio  was  left  alone,  his  face  brightened, 
and  he  turned  to  the  boy  from  Misery. 

"Does  Billy  Conrad  still  keep  store  at  Stagbone?" 

Samson  started,  and  his  gaze  fell  in  amazement.  At 
the  mention  of  the  name,  he  saw  a  cross-roads  store, 
with  rough  mules  hitched  to  fence  palings.  It  was  a 
picture  of  home,  and  here  was  a  man  who  had  been 
there!  With  glowing  eyes,  the  boy  dropped  uncon 
sciously  back  into  the  vernacular  of  the  hills. 

"Hev  ye  been  thar,  stranger?" 

The  writer  nodded,  and  sipped  his  whiskey. 

"Not  for  some  years,  though,"  he  confessed,  as  he 
drifted  into  reminiscence,  which  to  Samson  was  like 
water  to  a  parched  throat. 

When  they  left  the  cafe,  the  boy  felt  as  though  he 
were  taking  leave  of  an  old  and  tried  friend.  By  homely 
methods,  this  unerring  diagnostician  of  the  human  soul 
had  been  reading  him,  liking  him,  and  making  him  feel 
a  heart-warming  sympathy.  The  man  who  shrunk  from 
lion-hunters,  and  who  could  return  the  churl's  answer 
to  the  advances  of  sycophant  and  flatterer,  enthusi 
astically  poured  out  for  the  ungainly  mountain  boy  all 
the  rare  quality  and  bouquet  of  his  seasoned  personal 
charm.  It  was  a  vintage  distilled  from  experience  and 
humanity.  It  had  met  the  ancient  requirement  for  the 
'mellowing  and  perfecting  of  good  Madeira,  that  it  shall 
"voyage  twice  around  the  world's  circumference,"  and 
it  was  a  thing  reserved  for  his  friends. 

"It's  funny,"  commented  the  boy,  when  he  and  Les- 
cott  were  alone,  "that  he's  been  to  Stagbone." 

"My  dear  Samson,"  Lescott  assured  him,  "if  you  had 


182     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

spoken  of  Tucson,  Arizona,  or  Caracas  or  Saskatche 
wan,  it  would  have  been  the  same.  He  knows  them  all." 

It  was  not  until  much  later  that  Samson  realized  how 
these  two  really  great  men  had  adopted  him  as  their 
"little  brother,"  that  he  might  have  their  shoulder-touch 
to  march  by.  And  it  was  without  his  realization,  too, 
that  they  laid  upon  him  the  imprint  of  their  own  char 
acters  and  philosophy.  One  night  at  Tonelli's  table- 
d'hote  place,  the  latest  diners  were  beginning  to  drift 
out  into  Tenth  Street.  The  faded  soprano,  who  had  in 
better  days  sung  before  a  King,  was  wearying  as  she 
reeled  out  ragtime  with  a  strong  Neapolitan  accent. 
Samson  had  been  talking  to  the  short-story  writer  about 
his  ambitions  and  his  hatreds.  He  feared  he  was  drift 
ing  away  from  his  destiny — and  that  he  would  in  the 
end  become  too  softened.  The  writer  leaned  across  the 
table,  and  smiled. 

"Fighting  is  all  right,"  he  said;  "but  a  man  should 
not  be  just  the  fighter."  He  mused  a  moment  in  silence, 
then  quoted  a  scrap  of  verse : 

"  'Test  of  the  man,  if  his  worth  be, 

"  'In  accord  with  the  ultimate  plan, 
"  'That  he  be  not,  to  his  marring, 

"  'Always  and  utterly  man ; 
«  'That  he  bring  out  of  the  battle 

"  'Fitter  and  undefiled, 
*'  'To  woman  the  heart  of  a  woman, 

"  'To  children  the  heart  of  a  child.'  " 

Samson  South  offered  no  criticism.  He  had  known 
life  from  the  stoic's  view-point.  He  had  heard  the 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     183 

seductive  call  of  artistic  yearnings.  Now,  it  dawned  on 
him  in  an  intensely  personal  fashion,  as  it  had  begun 
already  to  dawn  in  theory,  that  the  warrior  and  the 
artist  may  meet  on  common  and  compatible  ground, 
where  the  fighting  spirit  is  touched  and  knighted  with 
|  the  gentleness  of  chivalry.  He  seemed  to  be  looking 
from  a  new  and  higher  plane,  from  which  he  could  see 
a  mellow  softness  on  angles  that  had  hitherto  been  only 
stern  and  unrelieved. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  T  HAVE  come,  not  to  quarrel  with  you,  but  to  try 

X  to  dissuade  you."  The  Honorable  Mr.  Wick- 
liffe  bit  savagely  at  his  cigar,  and  gave  a 
despairing  spread  to  his  well-manicured  hands.  "You 
stand  in  danger  of  becoming  the  most  cordially  hated 
man  in  New  York — hated  by  the  most  powerful  com 
binations  in  New  York." 

Wilfred  Horton  leaned  back  in  a  swivel  chair,  and 
put  his  feet  up  on  his  desk.  For  a  while,  he  seemed 
interested  in  his  own  silk  socks. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  warn  me,"  he  said,  quietly. 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Wickliffe  rose  in  exasperation, 
and  paced  the  floor.  The  smoke  from  his  black  cigar 
went  before  him  in  vicious  puffs.  Finally,  he  stopped, 
and  leaned  glaring  on  the  table. 

"Your  family  has  always  been  conservative.  When 
you  succeeded  to  the  fortune,  you  showed  no  symptoms 
of  this  mania.  In  God's  name,  what  has  changed  you?" 

"I  hope  I  have  grown  up,"  explained  the  young  man, 
with  an  unruffled  smile.  "One  can't  wear  swaddling' 
clothes  forever,  you  know." 

The  attorney  for  an  instant  softened  his  manner  as 
he  looked  into  the  straight-gazing,  unafraid  eyes  of  his 
client. 

"I've  known  you  from  your  babyhood.  I  advised 
your  father  before  you  were  born.  You  have,  by  the 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     185 

chance  of  birth,  come  into  the  control  of  great  wealth. 
The  world  of  finance  is  of  delicate  balance.  Squabbles 
in  certain  directorates  may  throw  the  Street  into  panic. 
Suddenly,  you  emerge  from  decent  quiet,  and  run  amuck 
in  the  china-shop,  bellowing  and  tossing  your  horns. 
You  make  war  on  those  whose  interests  are  your  own. 
You  seem  bent  on  hari-kari.  You  have  toys  enough  to 
amuse  you.  Why  couldn't  you  stay  put?" 

"They  weren't  the  right  things.  They  were,  as  you 
say,  toys."  The  smile  faded  and  Horton's  chin  set 
itself  for  a  moment,  as  he  added: 

"If  you  don't  think  I'm  going  to  stay  put — watch 
me." 

"Why  do  you  have  to  make  war — to  be  chronically 
insurgent?" 

"Because" — the  young  man,  who  had  waked  up, 
spoke  slowly — "I  am  reading  a  certain  writing  on  the 
wall.  The  time  is  not  far  off  when,  unless  we  regulate 
a  number  of  matters  from  within,  we  shall  be  regulated 
from  without.  Then,  instead  of  giving  the  financial 
body  a  little  griping  in  its  gold-lined  tummy,  which  is 
only  the  salutary  effect  of  purging,  a  surgical  operation 
will  be  required.  It  will  be  something  like  one  they 
performed  on  the  body  politic  of  France  not  so  long 
'ago.  Old  Dr.  Guillotine  officiated.  It  was  quite  a  suc 
cessful  operation,  though  the  patient  failed  to  rally." 

"Take  for  instance  this  newspaper  war  you've  inaug 
urated  on  the  police,"  grumbled  the  corporation  lawyer. 
"It's  less  dangerous  to  the  public  than  these  financial 
crusades,  but  decidedly  more  so  for  yourself.  You  are 
regarded  as  a  dangerous  agitator,  a  marplot!  I  tell 
you,  Wilfred,  aside  from  all  other  considerations  the 


186     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

thing  is  perilous  to  yourself.  You  are  riding  for  a 
fall.  These  men  whom  you  are  whipping  put  of  public 
life  will  turn  on  you." 

"So  I  hear.  Here's  a  letter  I  got  this  morning — 
unsigned.  That  is,  I  thought  it  was  here.  Well,  no 
matter.  It  warns  me  that  I  have  less  than  three  months 
to  live  unless  I  call  off  my  dogs." 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Wickliffe's  face  mirrored  alarm. 

"Let  me  have  it,"  he  demanded.  "You  shouldn't  treat 
such  matters  lightly.  Men  are  assassinated  in  Nev 
York.  I'll  refer  it  to  the  police."  „ 

Horton  laughed. 

"That  would  be  in  the  nature  of  referring  back, 
wouldn't  it?  I  fancy  it  came  from  some  one  not  so 
remote  from  police  sympathy." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  stay  put.  If  I  can  convict  certain 
corrupt  members  of  the  department,  I'm  going  to  nail 
brass-buttoned  hides  all  over  the  front  of  the  city  hall." 

"Have  you  had  any  other  threats?" 

"No,  not  exactly,  but  I've  had  more  touching  recog 
nition  than  that.  I've  been  asked  to  resign  from  several 
very  good  clubs."  f 

The  attorney  groaned. 

"You  will  be  a  Pariah.     So  will  your  allies." 

It  is  said  that  the  new  convert  is  ever  the  most  extrenu*1 
fanatic.  Wilfred  Horton  had  promised  to  put  on  his 
working  clothes,  and  he  had  done  it  with  reckless  disre 
gard  for  consequences.  At  first,  he  was  simply  obeying 
Adrienne's  orders;  but  soon  he  found  himself  playing 
the  game  for  the  game's  sake.  Men  at  the  clubs 
and  women  whom  he  took  into  dinner  chaffed  him  over 


his  sudden  disposition  to  try  his  wings.  Pie  was  a  man 
riding  a  hobby,  they  said.  In  time,  it  began  to  dawn 
that  he,  with  others,  whom  he  had  drawn  to  his 
standards,  meant  serious  war  on  certain  complacent 
evils  in  the  world  of  finance  and  politics.  Sleeping 
dogs  of  custom  began  to  stir  and  growl.  Political  over 
lords,  assailed  as  unfaithful  servants,  showed  their  teeth. 
From  some  hidden,  but  unfailing,  source  terribly  sure 
and  direct  evidence  of  guilt  was  being  gathered.  For 
Wilfred  Horton,  who  was  demanding  a  day  of  reckoning 
and  spending  great  sums  of  money  to  get  it,  there  was 
a  prospect  of  things  doing. 

Adrienne  Lescott  was  in  Europe.  Soon,  she  would 
return,  and  Horton  meant  to  show  that  he  had  not  buried 

his  talent. 

****** 

For  eight  months  Samson's  life  had  run  in  the  steady 
ascent  of  gradual  climbing,  but,  in  the  four  months 
from  the  first  of  August  to  the  first  of  December,  the 
pace  of  his  existence  suddenly  quickened.  He  left  off 
drawing  from  plaster  casts,  and  went  into  a  life  class. 
His  shyness  secretly  haunted  him.  The  nudity  of  the 
woman  posing  on  the  model  throne,  the  sense  of  his  own 
almost  as  naked  ignorance,  and  the  dread  of  the  criti 
cism  to  come,  were  all  keen  embarrassments  upon  him. 

In  this  period,  Samson  had  his  first  acquaintanceship 
with  women,  except  those  he  had  known  from  childhood 
— and  his  first  acquaintanceship  with  the  men  who  were 
not  of  his  own  art  world.  Of  the  women,  he  saw  several 
sorts.  There  were  the  aproned  and  frowsy  students,  of 
uncertain  age,  who  seemed  to  have  no  life  except  that 
which  existed  under  studio  skylights.  There  were,  also, 


188     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

a  few  younger  girls,  who  took  their  art  life  with  less 
painful  solemnity ;  and,  of  course,  the  models  in  the 
"partially  draped"  and  the  "altogether." 

Tony  Collasso  was  an  Italian  illustrator,  who  lodged 
and  painted  in  studio-apartments  in  Washington 
Square,  South.  He  had  studied  in  the  Julian  School 
and  the  Beaux  Arts,  and  wore  a  shock  of  dark  curls, 
a  Satanic  black  mustache,  and  an  expression  of  Byronic 
melancholy.  The  melancholy,  he  explained  to  Samson, 
sprang  from  the  necessity  of  commercializing  his  divine 
gift.  His  companions  were  various,  numbering  among 
them  a  group  of  those  pygmy  celebrities  of  whom  one 
has  never  heard  until  by  chance  he  meets  them,  and  of 
whom  their  intimates  speak  as  of  immortals. 

To  Collasso's  studio,  Samson  was  called  one  night  by 
telephone.  He  had  sometimes  gone  there  before  to  sit 
for  an  hour,  chiefly  as  a  listener,  while  the  man  from 
Sorrento  bewailed  fate  with  his  coterie,  and  denounced 
all  forms  of  government,  over  insipid  Chianti.  Some 
times,  an  equally  melancholy  friend  in  soiled  linen  and 
frayed  clothes  took  up  his  violin,  and,  as  he  improvised, 
the  noisy  group  would  fall  silent.  At  such  moments, 
Samson  would  ride  out  on  the  waves  of  melody,  and  see 
again  the  velvet  softness  of  the  mountain  night,  with 
stars  hanging  intimately  close,  and  hear  the  ripple  of 
Misery  and  a  voice  for  which  he  longed. 

But,  to-night,  he  entered  the  door  to  find  himself  in 
the  midst  of  a  gay  and  boisterous  party.  The  room 
was  already  thickly  fogged  with  smoke,  and  a  dozen 
men  and  women,  singing  snatches  of  current  airs,  were 
interesting  themselves  over  a  chafing  dish.  The  studio 
of  Tony  Collasso  was  of  fair  size,  and  adorned  with 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     189 

many  unframed  paintings,  chiefly  his  own,  and  a  few 
good  tapestries  and  bits  of  bric-a-brac  variously  jetti 
soned  from  the  sea  of  life  in  which  he  had  drifted.  The 
crowd  itself  was  typical.  A  few  very  minor  writers  and 
artists,  a  model  or  two,  and  several  women  who  had 
thinking  parts  in  current  Broadway  productions. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  guests  of  honor  arrived  in  a 
taxicab.  They  were  Mr.  William  Farbish  and  Miss 
Winifred  Starr.  Having  come,  as  they  explained,  direct 
from  the  theater  where  Miss  Starr  danced  in  the  first 
row,  they  were  in  evening  dress.  Samson  mentally 
acknowledged,  though,  with  instinctive  disfavor  for  the 
pair,  that  both  were,  in  a  way,  handsome.  Collasso 
drew  him  aside  to  whisper  importantly: 

"Make  yourself  agreeable  to  Farbish.  He  is  received 
in  the  most  exclusive  society,  and  is  a  connoisseur  of 
art.  He  is  a  connoisseur  in  all  things,"  added  the 
Italian,  with  a  meaning  glance  at  the  girl.  "Farbish 
has  lived  everywhere,"  he  ran  on,  "and,  if  he  takes  a 
fancy  to  you,  he  will  put  you  up  at  the  best  clubs.  I 
think  I  shall  sell  him  a  landscape." 

The  girl  was  talking  rapidly  and  loudly.  She  had 
at  once  taken  the  center  of  the  room,  and  her  laughter 
rang  in  free  and  egotistical  peals  above  the  other  voices. 

"Come,"  said  the  host,  "I  shall  present  you." 

The  boy  shook  hands,  gazing  with  his  usual  direct 
ness  into  the  show-girl's  large  and  deeply-penciled  eyes. 
Farbish,  standing  at  one  side  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  looked  on  with  an  air  of  slightly  bored 
detachment. 

His  dress,  his  mannerisms,  his  bearing,  were  all  those 
of  the  man  who  has  overstudied  his  part.  They  were 


190     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

too  perfect,  too  obviously  rehearsed  through  years  of 
social  climbing,  but  that  was  a  defect  Samson  was  not 
yet  prepared  to  recognize. 

Some  one  had  naively  complimented  Miss  Starr  on  the 
leopard-skin  cloak  she  had  just  thrown  from  her  shapely 
jhoulders,  and  she  turned  promptly  and  vivaciously  to 
;he  flatterer. 

"It  is  nice,  isn't  it?"  she  prattled.  "It  may  look  a 
little  up-stage  for  a  girl  who  hasn't  got  a  line  to  read 
in  the  piece,  but  these  days  one  must  get  the  spot-light, 
or  be  a  dead  one.  It  reminds  me  of  a  little  run-in  I 
had  with  Graddy — he's  our  stage-director,  you  know." 
She  paused,  awaiting  the  invitation  to  proceed,  and, 
having  received  it,  went  gaily  forward.  "I  was  ten 
minutes  late,  one  day,  for  rehearsal,  and  Graddy  came 
up  with  that  sarcastic  manner  of  his,  and  said:  'Miss 
Starr,  I  don't  doubt  you  are  a  perfectly  nice  girl,  and 
all  that,  but  it  rather  gets  my  goat  to  figure  out  how, 
on  a  salary  of  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  you  come  to 
rehearsals  in  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  clothes,  riding 
in  a  limousine — and  ten  minutes  late !' '  She  broke  off 
with  the  eager  little  expression  of  awaiting  applause, 
and,  having  been  satisfied,  she  added :  "I  was  afraid  that 
wasn't  going  to  get  a  laugh,  after  all." 

She  glanced  inquiringly  at  Samson,  who  had  not 
smiled,  and  who  stood  looking  puzzled. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Mr.  South,  from  down 
South,"  she  challenged. 

"I  guess  I'm  sort  of  like  Mr.  Graddy,"  said  the  boy, 
slowly.  "I  was  just  wondering  how  you  do  do  it." 

He  spoke  with  perfect  seriousness,  and,  after  a  mo 
ment,  the  girl  broke  into  a  prolonged  peal  of  laughter. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBEREANDS     191 

"Oh,  you  are  delicious !"  she  exclaimed.  "If  I  could 
do  the  ingenue  like  that,  believe  me,  I'd  make  some  hit." 
She  came  over,  and,  laying  a  hand  on  each  of  the  boy's 
shoulders,  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  cheek.  "That's  for 
a  droll  boy !"  she  said.  "That's  the  best  line  I've  heard 
pulled  lately." 

Farbish  was  smiling  in  quiet  amusement.  He  tapped 
the  mountaineer  on  the  shoulder. 

"I've  heard  George  Lescott  speak  of  you,"  he  said, 
genially.  "I've  rather  a  fancy  for  being  among  the 
discoverers  of  men  of  talent.  We  must  see  more  of  each 
other." 

Samson  left  the  party  early,  and  with  a  sense  of 
disgust.  It  was,  at  the  time  of  his  departure,  waxing 
more  furious  in  its  merriment.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
nowhere  among  these  people  was  a  note  of  sincerity, 
and  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  parting  at  the  stile, 
and  the  girl  whose  artlessness  and  courage  were  honest. 

Several  days  later,  Samson  was  alone  in  Lescott's 
studio.  It  was  nearing  twilight,  and  he  had  laid  aside 
a  volume  of  De  Maupassant,  whose  simple  power  had 
beguiled  him.  The  door  opened,  and  he  saw  the  figure 
<?f  a  woman  on  the  threshold.  The  boy  rose  somewhat 
shyly  from  his  seat,  and  stood  looking  at  her.  She  was 
as  richly  dressed  as  Miss  Starr  had  been,  but  there  was 
the  same  difference  as  between  the  colors  of  the  sunset 
sky  and  the  exaggerated  daubs  of  Collasso's  landscape. 
She  stood  lithely  straight,  and  her  furs  fell  back  from 
a  throat  as  smooth  and  slenderly  rounded  as  Sally's. 
Her  cheeks  were  bright  with  the  soft  glow  of  perfect 
health,  and  her  lips  parted  over  teeth  that  were  as  sound 
and  strong  as  they  were  decorative.  This  girl  did  not 


192     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

have  to  speak  to  give  the  boy  the  conviction  that  she  was 
some  one  whom  he  must  like.  She  stood  at  the  door  a 
moment,  and  then  came  forward  with  her  hand  out 
stretched. 

"This  is  Mr.  South,  isn't  it?"  she  asked,  with  a  frank 
friendliness  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  that's  my  name." 

"I'm  Adrienne  Lescott,"  said  the  girl.  "I  thought 
I'd  find  my  brother  here.  I  stopped  by  to  drive  him 
up-town." 

Samson  had  hesitatingly  taken  the  gloved  hand,  and 
its  grasp  was  firm  and  strong  despite  its  ridiculous 
smalhiess. 

"I  reckon  he'll  be  back  presently."  The  boy  was  in 
doubt  as  to  the  proper  procedure.  This  was  Lescott's 
studio,  and  he  was  not  certain  whether  or  not  it  lay 
in  his  province  to  invite  Lescott's  sister  to  take  posses 
sion  of  it.  Possibly,  he  ought  to  withdraw.  His  ideas 
of  social  usages  were  very  vague. 

"Then,  I  think  I'll  wait,"  announced  the  girl.  She 
threw  off  her  fur  coat,  and  took  a  seat  before  the  open 
grate.  The  chair  was  large,  and  swallowed  her  up. 

Samson  wanted  to  look  at  her,  and  was  afraid  that 
this  would  be  impolite.  He  realized  that  he  had  seen 
tno  real  ladies,  except  on  the  street,  and  now  he  had  the 
opportunity.  She  was  beautiful,  and  there  was  some 
thing  about  her  willowy  grace  of  attitude  that  made 
the  soft  and  clinging  lines  of  her  gown  fall  about  her 
in  charming  drapery  effects.  Her  small  pumps  and 
silk-stockinged  ankles  as  she  held  them  out  toward  the 
fire  made  him  say  to  himself: 

"I  reckon  she  never  went  barefoot  in  her  life." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     193 

"I'm  glad  of  this  chance  to  meet  you,  Mr.  South," 
said  the  girl  with  a  smile  that  found  its  way  to  the 
boy's  heart.  After  all,  there  was  sincerity  in  "foreign" 
women.  "George  talks  of  you  so  much  that  I  feel  as 
if  I'd  known  you  all  the  while.  Don't  you  think  I  might 
claim  friendship  with  George's  friends?" 

Samson  had  no  answer.  He  wished  to  say  something 
equally  cordial,  but  the  old  instinct  against  effusivene&s 
tied  his  tongue. 

"I  owe  right  smart  to  George  Lescott,"  he  told  her, 
gravely. 

"That's  not  answering  my  question,"  she  laughed. 
"Do  you  consent  to  being  friends  with  me?" 

"Miss — "  began  the  boy.  Then,  realizing  that  in 
New  York  this  form  of  address  is  hardly  complete,  he 
hastened  to  add:  "Miss  Lescott,  I've  been  here  over 
nine  months  now,  and  I'm  just  beginning  to  realize  what 
a  rube  I  am.  I  haven't  no — "  Again,  he  broke  off, 
and  laughed  at  himself.  "I  mean,  I  haven't  any  idea 
of  proper  manners,  and  so  I'm,  as  we  would  say  down 
home,  'plumb  skeered'  of  ladies." 

As  he  accused  himself,  Samson  was  looking  at  her 
with  unblinking  directness ;  and  she  met  his  glance  with 
eyes  that  twinkled. 

"Mr.  South,"  she  said,  "I  know  all  about  manners, 
and  you  know  all  about  a  hundred  real  things  that  I 
want  to  know.  Suppose  we  begin  teaching  each  other?" 

Samson's  face  lighted  with  the  revolutionizing  effect 
that  a  smile  can  bring  only  to  features  customarily 
solemn. 

"Miss  Lescott,"  he  said,  "let's  call  that  a  trade — 
but  you're  gettin'  all  the  worst  of  it.  To  start  with, 


194     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

you  might  give  me  a  lesson  right  now  in  how  a  feller 
ought  to  act,  when  he's  talkin'  to  a  lady — how  I  ought 
to  act  with  you!" 

Her  laugh  made  the  situation  as  easy  as  an  old  shoe. 

Ten  minutes  later,  Lescott  entered. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "shall  I  introduce  you 
people,  or  have  you  already  done  it  for  yourselves?" 

"Oh,"  Adrienne  assured  him,  "Mr.  South  and  I  are 
old  friends."  As  she  left  the  room,  she  turned  and 
added:  "The  second  lesson  had  better  be  at  my  house. 
If  I  telephone  you  some  day  when  we  can  have  the 
school-room  to  ourselves,  will  you  come  up?" 

Samson  grinned,  and  forgot  to  be  bashful  as  ke 
replied  : 

"I'll  come  a-kitin'!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EARLY  that  year,  the  touch  of  autumn  came  to 
the  air.  Often,  returning  at  sundown  from  the 
afternoon  life  class,  Samson  felt  the  lure  of  its 
melancholy  sweetness,  and  paused  on  one  of  the  Wash 
ington  Square  benches,  with  many  vague  things  stirring 
in  his  mind.  Some  of  these  things  were  as  subtly 
intangible  as  the  lazy  sweetness  that  melted  the  fa9ades 
of  the  walls  into  the  soft  colors  of  a  dream  city.  He 
found  himself  loving  the  Palisades  of  Jersey,  seen 
through  a  powdery  glow  at  evening,  and  the  red-gold 
glare  of  the  setting  sun  on  high-swung  gilt  signs.  He 
felt  with  a  throb  of  his  pulses  that  he  was  in  the  Bagdad 
of  the  new  world,  and  that  every  skyscraper  was  a 
minaret  from  which  the  muezzin  rang  toward  the  Mecca 
of  his  Art.  He  felt  with  a  stronger  throb  the  surety  of 
young,  but  quickening,  abilities  within  himself.  Partly, 
it  was  the  charm  of  Indian  summer,  partly  a  sense  of 
growing  with  the  days,  but,  also,  though  he  had  not  as 
yet  realized  that,  it  was  the  new  friendship  into  which 
Adrienne  had  admitted  him,  and  the  new  experience  of 
frank  camaraderie  with  a  woman  not  as  a  member  of  an 
inferior  sex,  but  as  an  equal  companion  of  brain  and 
soul.  He  had  seen  her  often,  and  usually  alone,  because 
he  shunned  meetings  with  strangers.  Until  his  educa 
tion  had  advanced  further,  he  wished  to  avoid  social 
embarrassments.  He  knew  that  she  liked  him,  and 

195 


196     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

realized  that  it  was  because  he  was  a  new  and  virile  type, 
and  for  that  reason  a  diversion — a  sort  of  human 
novelty.  She  liked  him,  too,  because  it  was  rare  for  a 
man  to  offer  her  friendship  without  making  love,  and 
she  was  certain  he  would  not  make  love.  He  liked  her 
for  the  same  many  reasons  that  every  one  else  did — 
because  she  was  herself.  Of  late,  too,  he  had  met  a 
number  of  men  at  Lescott's  clubs.  He  was  modestly 
surprised  to  find  that,  though  his  attitude  on  these  occa 
sions  was  always  that  of  one  sitting  in  the  background, 
the  men  seemed  to  like  him,  and,  when  they  said,  "See 
you  again,"  at  parting,  it  was  with  the  convincing 
manner  of  real  friendliness.  Sometimes,  even  now,  his 
language  was  ungrammatical,  but  so,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  was  theirs.  .  .  .  The  great  writer  smiled  with 
his  slow,  humorous  lighting  of  the  eyes  as  he  observed 
to  Lescott: 

"We  are  licking  our  cub  into  shape,  George,  and  the 
best  of  it  is  that,  when  he  learns  to  dance  ragtime  to 
the  organ,  he  isn't  going  to  stop  being  a  bear.  He's  a 
grizzly !" 

One  wonderful  afternoon  in  October,  when  the  dis 
tances  were  mist-hung,  and  the  skies  very  clear,  Samson 
sat  across  the  table  from  Adrienne  Lescott  at  a  road- 
house  on  the  Sound.  The  sun  had  set  through  great 
cloud  battalions  massed  against  the  west,  and  the  hori 
zon  was  fading  into  darkness  through  a  haze  like  ash 
of  roses.  She  had  picked  him  up  on  the  Avenue,  and 
taken  him  into  her  car  for  a  short  spin,  but  the  after 
noon  had  beguiled  them,  luring  them  on  a  little  further, 
and  still  a  little  further.  When  they  were  a  score  of 
miles  from  Manhattan,  the  car  had  suddenly  broken 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     197 

Sown.  It  would,  the  chauffeur  told  them,  be  the  matter 
of  an  hour  to  effect  repairs,  so  the  girl,  explaining  to 
the  boy  that  this  event  gave  the  affair  the  aspect  of 
adventure,  turned  and  led  the  way,  on  foot,  to  the 
nearest  road-house. 

<eWe  will  telephone  that  we  shall  be  late,  and  then  have 
dinner,"  she  laughed.  "And  for  me  to  have  dinner  with 
you  alone,  unchaperoned  at  a  country  inn,  is  by  New 
York  standards  delightfully  unconventional.  It  borders 
on  wickedness."  Then,  since  their  attitude  toward  each 
other  was  so  friendly  and  innocent,  they  both  laughed. 
They  had  dined  under  the  trees  of  an  old  manor  house, 
built  a  century  ago,  and  now  converted  into  an  inn, 
and  they  had  enjoyed  themselves  because  it  seemed  to 
them  pleasingly  paradoxical  that  they  should  find  in 
a  place  seemingly  so  shabby-genteel  a  cuisine  and  service 
of  such  excellence.  Neither  of  them  had  ever  been  there 
before,  and  neither  of  them  knew  that  the  reputation 
of  this  establishment  was  in  its  own  way  wide — and 
unsavory.  They  had  no  way  of  knowing  that,  because 
of  several  thoroughly  bruited  scandals  which  had  had 
origin  here,  it  was  a  tabooed  spot,  except  for  persons 
who  preferred  a  semi-shady  retreat;  and  they  passed 
over  without  suspicion  the  palpable  surprise  of  the  head 
'waiter  when  they  elected  to  occupy  a  table  on  the  terrace 
'instead  of  a  cabinet  partictdier. 

But  the  repairs  did  not  go  as  smoothly  as  the 
chauffeur  had  expected,  and,  when  he  had  finished,  he 
was  hungry.  So,  eleven  o'clock  found  them  still  chat 
ting  at  their  table  on  the  lighted  lawn.  After  awhile, 
they  fell  silent,  and  Adrienne  noticed  that  her  com- 


198     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

panion's  face  had  become  deeply,  almost  painfully  set, 
and  that  his  gaze  was  tensely  focused  on  herself. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  South?"  she  demanded. 

The  young  man  began  to  speak,  in  a  steady,  self- 
accusing  voice. 

"I  was  sitting  here,  looking  at  you,"  he  said,  bluntly. 
*'I  was  thinking  how  fine  you  are  in  every  way;  how 
there  is  as  much  difference  in  the  texture  of  men  and 
women  as  there  is  in  the  texture  of  their  clothes.  From 
that  automobile  cap  you  wear  to  your  slippers  and 
stockings,  you  are  clad  in  silk.  From  your  brain  to 
the  tone  of  your  voice,  you  are  woven  of  human  silk. 
I've  learned  lately  that  silk  isn't  weak,  but  strong. 
They  make  the  best  balloons  of  it."  He  paused  and 
laughed,  but  his  face  again  became  sober.  "I  was  think 
ing,  too,  of  your  mother.  She  must  be  sixty,  but  she's 
a  young  woman.  Her  face  is  smooth  and  unwrinkled, 
and  her  heart  is  still  in  bloom.  At  that  same  age, 
George  won't  be  much  older  than  he  is  now." 

The  compliment  was  so  obviously  not  intended  as 
compliment  at  all  that  the  girl  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"Then,"  went  on  Samson,  his  face  slowly  drawing 
with  pain,  "I  was  thinking  of  my  own  people.  My 
mother  was  about  forty  when  she  died.  She  was  an  old 
woman.  My  father  was  forty-three.  He  was  an  old 
man.  I  was  thinking  how  they  withered  under  their 
drudgery — and  of  the  monstrous  injustice  of  it  all." 

Adrienne  Lescott  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  sweetly 
sympathetic. 

"It's  the  hardship  of  the  conditions,"  she  said,  softly. 
"Those  conditions  will  change." 

"But  that's  not  all  I  was  thinking,"  went  on  the  boy. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     199 

"I  was  watching  you  lift  your  coffee-cup  awhile  ago. 
You  did  it  unconsciously,  but  your  movement  was  dainty 
and  graceful,  as  though  an  artist  had  posed  you.  That 
takes  generations,  and,  in  my  imagination,  I  saw  my 
people  sitting  around  an  oil-cloth  on  a  kitchen  table, 
'pouring  coffee  into  their  saucers." 

"  'There  are  five  and  twenty  ways 
"  'Of  writing  tribal  lays,' ': 

quoted  the  girl,  smilingly, 

"  'And  every  single  one  of  them  is  right.* ' 

"And  a  horrible  thought  came  to  me,"  contin'aed 
Samson.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  mopped 
his  forehead,  then  tossed  back  the  long  lock  that  fell 
over  it.  "I  wondered" — he  paused,  and  then  went  on 
with  a  set  face — "I  wondered  if  I  were  growing  ashamed 
of  my  people." 

"If  I  thought  that,"  said  Miss  Lescott,  quietly,  "I 
wouldn't  have  much  use  for  you.  But  I  know  there's  no 
danger." 

"If  I  thought  there  was,"  Samson  assured  her,  "I 
would  go  back  there  to  Misery,  and  shoot  myself  to 
death.  .  .  .  And,  yet,  the  thought  came  to  me." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  your  being  a  cad,"  she  repeated. 

"And  yet,"  he  smiled,  "I  was  trying  to  imagine  you 
among  my  people.  What  was  that  rhyme  you  used  to 
quote  to  me  when  you  began  to  teach  me  manners?" 

She  laughed,  and  fell  into  nonsense  quotation,  as  she 
thrummed  lightly  on  the  table-cloth  with  her  slim 
fingers. 


200     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"  'The  goops  they  lick  their  fingers, 
"  'The  goops  eat  with  their  knives, 

"  'They  spill  their  broth  on  the  table-cloth, 
"  'And  lead  disgusting  lives.' ' 

"My  people  do  all  those  things,"  announced  Samson, 
though  he  said  it  rather  in  a  manner  of  challenge  than 
apology,  "except  spilling  their  broth  on  the  table-cloth. 
.  .  .  There  are  no  table-cloths.  What  would  you  do 
in  such  company?" 

"I,"  announced  Miss  Lescott,  promptly,  "should  also 
lick  my  fingers." 

Samson  laughed,  and  looked  up.  A  man  had  come 
out  onto  the  verandah  from  the  inside,  and  was 
approaching  the  table.  He  was  immaculately  groomed, 
and  came  forward  with  the  deference  of  approaching  a 
throne,  yet  as  one  accustomed  to  approaching  thrones. 
His  smile  was  that  of  pleased  surprise. 

The  mountaineer  recognized  Farbish,  and,  with  a 
quick  hardening  of  the  face,  he  recalled  their  last 
meeting.  If  Farbish  should  presume  to  renew  the 
acquaintanceship  under  these  circumstances,  Samson 
meant  to  rise  from  his  chair,  and  strike  him  in  the  face. 
George  Lescott's  sister  could  not  be  subjected  to  such 
meetings.  Yet,  it  was  a  tribute  to  his  advancement  in/ 
good  manners  that  he  dreaded  making  a  scene  in  he-  ' 
presence,  and,  as  a  warning,  he  met  Farbish's  pleasant 
smile  with  a  look  of  blank  and  studied  lack  of  recogni 
tion.  The  circumstances  out  of  which  Farbish  might 
weave  unpleasant  gossip  did  not  occur  to  Samson.  That 
they  were  together  late  in  the  evening,  unchaperoned, 
at  a  road-house  whose  reputation  was  socially  dubious, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     201 

was  a  thing  he  did  not  realize.  But  Farbish  was  keenly 
alive  to  the  possibilities  of  the  situation.  He  chose  to 
construe  the  Kentuckian's  blank  expression  as  annoy 
ance  at  being  discovered,  a  sentiment  he  could  readily 
understand.  Adrienne  Lescott,  following  her  com 
panion's  eyes,  looked  up,  and  to  the  boy's  astonishment 
nodded  to  the  new-comer,  and  called  him  by  name. 

"Mr.  Farbish,"  she  laughed,  with  mock  confusion  and 
total  innocence  of  the  fact  that  her  words  might  have 
meaning,  "don't  tell  on  us." 

"I  never  tell  things,  my  dear  lady,"  said  the  new 
comer.  "I  have  dwelt  too  long  in  conservatories  to  toss 
pebbles.  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  South,  you  have  forgotten 
me.  I'm  Farbish,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
you" — he  paused  a  moment,  then  with  a  pointed  glance 
added — "at  the  Manhattan  Club,  was  it  not?" 

"It  was  not,"  said  Samson,  promptly.  Farbish  looked 
his  surprise,  but  was  resolved  to  see  no  offense,  and, 
after  a  few  moments  of  affable  and,  it  must  be  acknowl 
edged,  witty  conversation,  withdrew  to  his  own  table. 

"Where  did  you  meet  that  man?"  demanded  Samson, 
fiercely,  when  he  and  the  girl  were  alone  again. 

"Oh,  at  any  number  of  dinners  and  dances.  His  sort 
is  tolerated  for  some  reason."  She  paused,  then,  look 
ing  very  directly  at  the  Kentuckian,  inquired,  "And 
where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"Didn't  you  hear  him  say  the  Manhattan  Club?" 

"Yes,  and  I  knew  that  he  was  lying." 

"Yes,  he  was!"  Samson  spoke,  contemptuously. 
"Never  mind  where  it  was.  It  was  a  place  I  got  out  of 
when  I  found  out  who  were  there." 

The  chauffeur  came  to  announce  that  the  car  was 


202     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

ready,  and  they  went  out.    Farbish  watched  them  with 
a  smile  that  had  in  it  a  trace  of  the  sardonic. 

The  career  of  Farbish  had  been  an  interesting  one  in 
its  own  peculiar  and  unadmirable  fashion.  With  no 
advantages  of  upbringing,  he  had  nevertheless  so  culti 
vated  the  niceties  of  social  usage  that  his  one  flaw  was 
a  too  great  perfection.  He  was  letter-perfect  where" 
one  to  the  manor  born  might  have  slurred  some  detail. 

He  was  witty,  handsome  in  his  saturnine  way,  and 
had  powerful  friends  in  the  world  of  fashion  and  finance. 
That  he  rendered  services  to  his  plutocratic  patrons, 
other  than  the  repartee  of  his  dinner  talk,  was  a  thing 
vaguely  hinted  in  club  gossip,  and  that  these  services 
were  not  to  his  credit  had  more  than  once  been  con 
jectured. 

When  Horton  had  begun  his  crusade  against  various 
abuses,  he  had  cast  a  suspicious  eye  on  all  matters 
through  which  he  could  trace  the  trail  of  William  Far 
bish,  and  now,  when  Farbish  saw  Horton,  he  eyed  him 
with  an  enigmatical  expression,  half -quizzical  and  half- 
malevolent. 

After  Adrienne  and  Samson  had  disappeared,  he 
rejoined  his  companion,  a  stout,  middle-aged  gentle 
man  of  florid  complexion,  whose  cheviot  cutaway  and 
reposeful  waistcoat  covered  a  liberal  embonpoint.  Far 
bish  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  and  studied  its  ascend-' 
ing  smoke  through  lids  half -closed  and  thoughtful. 

"Singular,"  he  mused ;  "very  singular !" 

"What's  singular?"  impatiently  demanded  his  com* 
panion.  "Finish,  or  don't  start." 

"That  mountaineer  came  up  here  as  George  Lescott's 
protege,"  went  on  Farbish,  reflectively.  "He  came 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     203 

iresh  from  the  feud  belt,  and  landed  promptly  in  the 
police  court.  Now,  in  less  than  a  year,  he's  pairing  off 
•with  Adrienne  Lescott — who,  every  one  supposed,  meant 
to  marry  Wilfred  Horton.  This  little  party  to-night 
is,  to  put  it  quite  mildly,  a  bit  unconventional." 

The  stout  gentleman  said  nothing,  and  the  other 
questioned,  musingly : 

"By  the  way,  Bradburn,  has  the  Kenmore  Shooting 
Club  requested  Wilfred  Horton's  resignation  yet?" 

"Not  yet.  We  are  going  to.  He's  not  congenial, 
since  his  hand  is  raised  against  every  man  who  owns 
more  than  two  dollars."  The  speaker  owned  several 
million  times  that  sum.  This  meeting  at  an  out-of-the- 
way  place  had  been  arranged  for  the  purpose  of  dis 
cussing  ways  and  means  of  curbing  Wilfred's  crusades. 

"Well,  don't  do  it." 

"Why  the  devil  shouldn't  we?  We  don't  want  anar 
chists  in  the  Kenmore." 

After  awhile,  they  sat  silent,  Farbish  smiling  over 
the  plot  he  had  just  devised,  and  the  other  man  puffing 
with  a  puzzled  expression  at  his  cigar. 

"That's  all  there  is  to  it,"  summarized  Mr.  Farbish, 
succinctly.  "If  we  can  get  these  two  men,  South  and 
Horton,  together  down  there  at  the  shooting  lodges 
under  the  proper  conditions,  they'll  do  the  rest  them 
selves,  I  think.  I'll  take  care  of  South.  Now,  it's  up 
to  you  to  have  Horton  there  at  the  same  time." 

"How  do  you  know  these  two  men  have  not  already 
met — and  amicably?"  demanded  Mr.  Bradburn. 

"I  happen  to  know  it,  quite  by  chance.  It  is  my 
business  to  know  things — quite  by  chance!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

INDIAN  summer  came  again  to  Misery,  flaunting 
woodland  banners  of  crimson  and  scarlet  and 
orange,  but  to  Sally  the  season  brought  only  heart- 
achy  remembrances  of  last  autumn,  when  Samson  had 
softened  his  stoicism  as  the  haze  had  softened  the  hori- 
2on.  He  had  sent  her  a  few  brief  letters — not  written, 
but  plainly  printed.  He  selected  short  words — as  much 
like  the  primer  as  possible,  for  no  other  messages  could 
she  read.  There  were  times  in  plenty  when  he  wished 
to  pour  out  to  her  torrents  of  feeling,  and  it  was  such 
feeling  as  would  have  carried  comfort  to  her  lonely 
little  heart.  He  wished  to  tell  frankly  of  what  a  good 
friend  he  had  made,  and  how  this  friendship  made  him 
more  able  to  realize  that  other  feeling — his  love  for 
Sally.  There  was  in  his  mind  no  suspicion — as  yet — that 
these  two  girls  might  ever  stand  in  conflict  as  to  right- 
of-way.  But  the  letters  he  wished  to  write  were  not  the 
sort  he  cared  to  have  read  to  the  girl  by  the  evangelist- 
doctor  or  the  district-school  teacher,  and  alone  she  could 
have  made  nothing  of  them.  However,  "I  love  you" 
are  easy  words — -and  those  he  always  included. 

The  Widow  Miller  had  been  ailing  for  monVns,  and, 
though  the  local  physician  diagnosed  the  condition  as 
being  "right  porely,"  he  knew  that  the  specter  of  tuber 
culosis  which  stalks  through  these  badly  lighted  and 
ventilated  houses  was  stretching  out  its  fingers  to  touch 

204 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     205 

her  shrunken  chest.  This  had  meant  that  Sally  had  to 
forego  the  evening  hours  of  study,  because  of  the  weari 
ness  that  followed  the  day  of  nursing  and  household 
drudgery.  Autumn  seemed  to  bring  to  her  mother  a 
slight  improvement,  and  Sally  could  again  sometimes 
steal  away  with  her  slate  and  book,  to  sit  alone  on  the 
big  bowlder,  and  study.  But,  oftentimes,  the  print  on 
the  page,  or  the  scrawl  on  the  slate,  became  blurred. 
Nowadays,  the  tears  came  weakly  to  her  eyes,  and, 
instead  of  hating  herself  for  them  and  dashing  them 
fiercely  away,  as  she  would  have  done  a  year  ago,  she 
sat  listlessly,  and  gazed  across  the  flaring  hills. 

Even  the  tuneful  glory  of  the  burgundy  and  scarlet 
mountains  hurt  her  into  wincing — for  was  it  not  the 
clarion  of  Beauty  that  Samson  had  heard — and  in 
answer  to  which  he  had  left  her  ?  So,  she  would  sit,  and 
let  her  eyes  wander,  and  try  to  imagine  the  sort  of 
picture  those  same  very  hungry  eyes  would  see,  could 
she  rip  away  the  curtain  of  purple  distance,  and  look 
in  on  him — wherever  he  was.  And,  in  imagining  such 
a  picture,  she  was  hampered  by  no  actual  knowledge  of 
the  world  in  which  he  lived — it  was  all  a  fairy-tale  world, 
one  which  her  imagination  shaped  and  colored  fantas 
tically.  Then,  she  would  take  out  one  of  his  occasional 
letters,  and  her  face  would  grow  somewhat  rapt,  as 
she  spelled  out  the  familiar,  "I  love  you,"  which  was 
to  her  the  soul  of  the  message.  The  rest  was  unim 
portant.  She  would  not  be  able  to  write  that  Christmas 
letter.  There  had  been  too  many  interruptions  in  the 
self -imparted  education,  but  some  day  she  would  write. 
There  would  probably  be  time  enough.  It  would  take 
even  Samson  a  long  while  to  become  an  artist.  He  had 


206     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

said  so,  and  the  morbid  mountain  pride  forbade  that 
she  should  write  at  all  until  she  could  do  it  well  enough 
to  give  him  a  complete  surprise.  It  must  be  a  finished 
article,  that  letter — or  nothing  at  all ! 

One  day,  as  she  was  walking  homeward  from  her 
lonely  trysting  place,  she  met  the  battered-looking  man 
who  carried  medicines  in  his  saddlebags  and  the 
Scriptures  in  his  pocket,  and  who  practised  both  forms 
of  heaKng  through  the  hills.  The  old  man  drew  down 
his  nag,  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  pommel. 

"Evenin',  Sally,"  he  greeted. 

"Evenin',  Brother  Spencer.    How  air  ye?" 

"Tol'able,  thank  ye,  Sally."  The  body-and-soul 
mender  studied  the  girl  awhile  in  silence,  and  then  said 
bluntly : 

"Ye've  done  broke  right  smart,  in  the  last  year. 
Anything  the  matter  with  ye  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  laughed.  It  was  an  effort 
to  laugh  merrily,  but  only  the  ghost  of  the  old  in 
stinctive  blitheness  rippled  into  it. 

"I've  jest  come  from  old  Spicer  South's,"  vol 
unteered  the  doctor.  "He's  ailin'  pretty  consid'able, 
these  days." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Unc'  Spicer?"  demanded 
the  girl,  in  genuine  anxiety.  Every  one  along  Misery 
called  the  old  man  Unc'  Spicer. 

"I  can't  jest  make  out."  Her  informer  spoke  slowly, 
and  his  brow  corrugated  into  something  like  sullenness. 
"He  hain't  jest  to  say  sick.  Thet  is,  his  organs  seems 
all  right,  but  he  don't  'pear  to  have  no  heart  fer  nothin', 
and  his  victuals  don't  tempt  him  none.  He's  jest  puny, 
thet's  all," 


"I'll  go  over  thar,  an*  see  him,"  announced  the  girl. 
"I'll  cook  a  chicken  thet'll  tempt  him." 

The  physician's  mind  was  working  along  some  line 
which  did  not  seem  to  partake  of  cheerfulness.  Again, 
he  studied  the  girl,  still  upright  and  high-chmned,  but, 
somehow,  no  longer  effervescent  with  wild,  resilient 
strength. 

"Hit  sometimes  'pears  to  me,"  he  said,  gruffly,  "thet 
this  here  thing  of  eddication  costs  a  sight  more  than 
hit  comes  to." 

"What  d'ye  mean,  Brother  Spencer?" 

"I  reckon  if  Samson  South  hadn't  a-took  this  hyar 
hankerin'  atter  larnin',  an'  had  stayed  home  'stid  of 
rainbow  chasm',  the  old  man  would  still  be  able-bodied, 
'stid  of  dyin'  of  a  broken  heart — an'  you " 

The  girl's  cheeks  flushed.  Her  violet  eyes  became 
deep  with  a  loyal  and  defensive  glow. 

"Ye  mustn't  say  things  like  them,  Brother  Spencer." 
Her  voice  was  very  firm  and  soft.  "Unc'  Spicer's  jest 
gettin'  old,  an'  es  fer  me,  I  wasn't  never  better  ner 
happier  in  my  life."  It  was  a  lie,  but  a  splendid  lie,  and 
she  told  herself  as  well  as  Brother  Spencer  that  she 
believed  it.  "Samson  would  come  back  in  a  minit  ef 
we  sent  fer  him.  He's  smart,  an*  he's  got  a  right  ter 
1'arnin' !  He  hain't  like  us  folks ;  he's  a — "  She  paused, 
and  groped  for  the  word  that  Lescott  had  added  to  her 
vocabulary,  which  she  had  half-forgotten.  "He's  a 
genius !" 

There  rose  to  the  lips  of  the  itinerant  preacher  a 
sentiment  as  to  how  much  more  loyalty  availeth  a  man 
than  genius,  but,  as  he  looked  at  the  slender  and  valiant 


208     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

figure  standing  in  the  deep  dust  of  the  road,  he  left  it 
unuttered. 

The  girl  spent  much  time  after  that  at  the  house  of 
old  Spicer  South,  and  her  coming  seemed  to  waken  him 
into  a  fitful  return  of  spirits.  His  strength,  which  had 
been  like  the  strength  of  an  ox,  had  gone  from  him,  and 
he  spent  his  hours  sitting  listlessly  in  a  split-bottomed 
rocker,  which  was  moved  from  place  to  place,  following 
the  sunshine. 

"I  reckon,  Unc'  Spicer,"  suggested  the  girl,  on  one 
of  her  first  visits,  "I'd  better  send  fer  Samson.  Mebby 
hit  mout  do  ye  good  ter  see  him." 

The  old  man  was  weakly  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  his  eyes  were  vacantly  listless ;  but,  at  the  sugges 
tion,  he  straightened,  and  the  ancient  fire  came  again 
to  his  face. 

"Don't  ye  do  hit,"  he  exclaimed,  almost  fiercely.  "I 
knows  ye  means  hit  kindly,  Sally,  but  don't  ye  meddle 
in  my  business." 

"I— I  didn't  'low  ter  meddle,"  faltered  the  girl. 

"No,  little  gal."  His  voice  softened  at  once  into 
jgentleness.  "I  knows  ye  didn't.  I  didn't  mean  ter  be 
short-answered  with  ye  neither,  but  thar's  jest  one  thing 
I  won't  'low  nobody  ter  do — an'  thet's  ter  send  fer 
Samson.  He  knows  the  road  home,  an',  when  he  wants 
ter  come,  he'll  find  the  door  open,  but  we  hain't  a-goin' 
ter  send  atter  him." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  and,  after  awhile,  the  old  man 
went  on : 

"I  wants  ye  ter  understand  me,  Sally.  Hit  hain't 
that  I'm  mad  with  Samson.  God  knows,  I  loves  the 
boy.  ...  I  hain't  a-blamin'  him,  neither.  .  .  ." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     209 

He  was  silent  for  awhile,  and  his  words  came  with  the 
weariness  of  dead  hopes  when  he  began  again.  "Mebby, 
I  oughtn't  ter  talk  about  sech  things  with  a  young  gal, 
but  I'm  an  old  man,  an'  thar  hain't  no  harm  in  hit.  .  .  . 
From  the  time  when  I  used  ter  watch  you  two  children 
go  a-trapsin'  off  in  the  woods  together  atter  hickory 
nuts,  thar's  been  jest  one  thing  thet  I've  looked  forward 
to  and  dreamed  about:  I  wanted  ter  see  ye  married. 
I  'lowed — "  A  mistiness  quenched  the  sternness  of  his 
gray  eyes.  "I  'lowed  thet,  ef  I  could  see  yore  children 
playin'  round  this  here  yard,  everything  thet's  ever 
gone  wrong  would  be  paid  fer." 

Sally  stood  silently  at  his  side,  and  her  cheeks  flushed 
as  the  tears  crept  into  her  eyes;  but  her  hand  stole 
through  the  thick  mane  of  hair,  fast  turning  from  iron- 
gray  to  snow-white. 

Spicer  South  watched  the  fattening  hog  that  rubbed 
its  bristling  side  against  the  rails  stacked  outside  the 
fence,  and  then  said,  with  an  imperious  tone  that  did 
not  admit  of  misconstruction : 

"But,  Sally,  the  boy's  done  started  out  on  his  own 
row.  He's  got  ter  hoe  hit.  Mebby  he'll  come  back — 
mebby  not !  Thet's  as  the  Lord  wills.  Hit  wouldn't  do 
us  no  good  fer  him  to  come  withouten  he  come  willin'ly. 
The  meanest  thing  ye  could  do  ter  me — an'  him — would 
be  ter  send  fer  him.  Ye  mustn't  do  hit.  Ye  mustn't !" 

"All  right,  Unc'  Spicer.  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  do  hit 
— leastways,  not  yit.  But  I'm  a-goin'  ter  come  over 
hyar  every  day  ter  see  ye." 

"Ye  can't  come  too  often,  Sally,  gal,"  declared  the 
old  clansman,  heartily. 


210     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Wilfred  Horton  found  himself  that  fall  in  the  posi 
tion  of  a  man  whose  course  lies  through  rapids,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  his  pleasures  were  giving  prece 
dence  to  business.     He  knew  that  his  efficiency  would 
depend  on  maintaining  the  physical  balance  of  perfect 
health  and  fitness,  and  early  each  morning  he  went  for 
his  gallop  in  the  park.     At  so  early  an  hour,  he  had 
the  bridle  path  for  the  most  part  to  himself.     This 
had  its   compensations,   for,   though  Wilfred   Horton 
continued  to  smile  with  his  old-time  good  humor,  he  ac 
knowledged  to  himself  that  it  was  not  pleasant  to  have 
men  who  had  previously  sought  him  out  with  flatteries 
avert  their  faces,  and  pretend  that  they  had  not  seen  him. 
Horton  was  the  most-hated  and  most-admired  man, 
in  New  York,  but  the  men  who  hated  and  snubbed  him 
were  his  own  sort,  and  the  men  who  admired  him  were 
those  whom  he  would  never  meet,  and  who  knew  him 
only  through  the  columns   of  penny  papers.      Their 
sympathy  was  too  remote  to  bring  him  explicit  pleas 
ure.     He  was  merely  attempting,  from  within,  reforms 
which  the  public  and  the  courts  had  attempted  from 
without.    But,  since  he  operated  from  within  the  walls, 
he  was  denounced  as  a  Judas.     Powerful  enemies  had 
ceased  to  laugh,  and  begun  to  conspire.     He  must  be 
silenced!     How,  was  a  mooted  question.     But,  in  some 
fashion,  he  must  be  silenced.     Society  had  not  cast  him 
out,  but  Society  had  shown  him  in  many  subtle  ways 
that  he  was  no  longer  her  favorite.     He  had  taken  a 
plebeian  stand  with  the  masses.    Meanwhile,  from  vari 
ous  sources,  Horton  had  received  warnings  of  actual 
personal  danger.     But  at  these  he  had  laughed,  and  no 
hint  of  them  had  reached  Adrienne's  ears. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     211 

One  evening,  when  business  had  forced  the  postpone 
ment  of  a  dinner  engagement  with  Miss  Lescott,  he 
begged  her  over  the  telephone  to  ride  with  him  the  fol 
lowing  morning. 

"I  know  you  are  usually  asleep  when  I'm  out  and 
galloping,"  he  laughed,  "but  you  pitched  me  neck  and 
crop  into  this  hurly-burly,  and  I  shouldn't  have  to  lose 
everything.  Don't  have  your  horse  brought.  I  want 
you  to  try  out  a  new  one  of  mine." 

"I  think,"  she  answered,  "that  early  morning  is  the 
»est  time  to  ride.  I'll  meet  you  at  seven  at  the  Plaza 
entrance." 

They  had  turned  the  upper  end  of  the  reservoir 
before  Horton  drew  his  mount  to  a  walk,  and  allowed 
the  reins  to  hang.  They  had  been  galloping  hard,  and 
conversation  had  been  impracticable. 

"I  suppose  experience  should  have  taught  me,"  began 
Horton,  slowly,,  "that  the  most  asinine  thing  in  the 
world  is  to  try  to  lecture  you,  Drennie.  But  there  are 
times  when  one  must  even  risk  your  delight  at  one's 
discomfiture." 

"I'm  not  going  to  tease  you  this  morning,"  she 
answered,  docilely.  "I  like  the  horse  too  well — and,  to 
be  frank,  I  like  you  too  well!" 

"Thank  you,"  smiled  Horton.  "As  usual,  you  disarm 
me  on  the  verge  of  combat.  I  had  nerved  myself  for 
ridicule." 

"What  have  I  done  now?"  inquired  the  girl,  with  an 
innocence  which  further  disarmed  him. 

"The  Queen  can  do  no  wrong.  But  even  the  Queen, 
perhaps  more  particularly  the  Queen,  must  give  thought 
to  what  people  are  saying." 


"What  are  people  saying?" 

"The  usual  unjust  things  that  are  said  about  women 
in  society.  You  are  being  constantly  seen  with  an 
uncouth  freak  who  is  scarcely  a  gentleman,  however 
much  he  may  be  a  man.  And  malicious  tongues  are 
1  wagging." 

The  girl  stiffened. 

"I  won't  spar  with  you.  I  know  that  you  are  alluding 
to  Samson  South,  though  the  description  is  a  slander.  I 
never  thought  it  would  be  necessary  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  you,  Wilfred,  but  you  are  talking  like  a  cad." 

The  young  man  flushed. 

"I  laid  myself  open  to  that,"  he  said,  slowly,  "and 
I  suppose  I  should  have  expected  it." 

He  knew  her  well  enough  to  dread  the  calmness  of 
her  more  serious  anger,  and  just  now  the  tilt  of  her 
chin,  the  ominous  light  of  her  deep  eyes  and  the  quality 
of  her  voice  told  him  that  he  had  incurred  it. 

"May  I  ask,"  Adrienne  inquired,  "what  you  fancy 
constitutes  your  right  to  assume  this  censorship  of  my 
conduct?" 

"I  have  no  censorship,  of  course.  I  have  only  the 
jinterest  of  loving  you,  and  meaning  to  marry  you." 

"And  I  may  remark  in  passing,  that  you  are  making 
no  progress  to  that  end  by  slandering  my  friends." 

"Adrienne,  I'm  not  slandering.  God  knows  I  hate 
cads  and  snobs.  Mr.  South  is  simply,  as  yet,  uncivil 
ized.  Otherwise,  he  would  hardly  take  you,  unchape- 
roned,  to — well,  let  us  say  to  ultra-bohemian  resorts, 
where  you  are  seen  by  such  gossip-mongers  as  William 
Farbish. 

"So,  that's  the  specific  charge,  is  it?" 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     213 

"Yes,  that's  the  specific  charge.  Mr.  South  may  be 
a  man  of  unusual  talent  and  strength.  But — he  has 
done  what  no  other  man  has  done — with  you.  He  has 
caused  club  gossip,  which  may  easily  be  twisted  and 
misconstrued." 

"Do  you  fancy  that  Samson  South  could  have  taken 
me  to  the  Wigwam  Road-house  if  I  had  not  cared  to 
go  with  him?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"Certainly  not!  But  the  fact  that  you  did  care  to 
go  with  him  indicates  an  influence  over  you  which  is  new. 
You  have  not  sought  the  bohemian  and  unconventional 
phases  of  life  with  your  other  friends." 

Adrienne  glanced  at  the  athletic  figure  riding  at  her 
side,  just  now  rather  rigid  with  restraint  and  indigna 
tion,  as  though  his  vertebrae  were  threaded  on  a  ramrod, 
and  her  eyes  darkened  a  little. 

"Now,  let  it  be  thoroughly  understood  between  us, 
Wilfred,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "that  if  you  see  any 
danger  in  my  unconventionalities,  I  don't  care  to  discuss 
this,  or  any  other  matter,  with  you  now  or  at  any  time." 
She  paused,  then  added  in  a  more  friendly  voice:  "It 
would  be  rather  a  pity  for  us  to  quarrel  about  a  thing 
like  this." 

The  young  man  was  still  looking  into  her  eyes,  and 
he  read  there  an  ultimatum. 

"God  knows  I  was  not  questioning  you,"  he  replied, 
slowly.  "There  is  no  price  under  heaven  I  would  not 
pay  for  your  regard.  None  the  less,  I  repeat  that,  at 
the  present  moment,  I  can  see  only  two  definitions  for 
this  mountaineer.  Either  he  is  a  bounder,  or  else  he  is 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

so  densely  ignorant  and  churlish  that  he  is  unfit  to  asso 
ciate  with  you." 

"I  make  no  apologies  for  Mr.  South,"  she  said, 
"because  none  are  needed.  He  is  a  stranger  in  New 
York,  who  knows  nothing,  and  cares  nothing  about  the 
conventionalities.  If  I  chose  to  waive  them,  I  think  it 
was  my  right  and  my  responsibility." 

Horton  said  nothing,  and,  in  a  moment,  Adrienne 
Lescott's  manner  changed.  She  spoke  more  gently : 

"Wilfred,  I'm  sorry  you  choose  to  take  this  prejudice 
against  the  boy.  You  could  have  done  a  great  deal  to 
help  him.  I  wanted  you  to  be  friends." 

"Thank  you!"  His  manner  was  stiff.  "I  hardly 
think  we'd  hit  it  off  together." 

*{I  don't  think  you  quite  understand,"  she  argued. 
"Samson  South  is  running  a  clean,  creditable  race, 
weighted  down  with  a  burdensome  handicap.  As  a 
straight-thinking  sportsman,  if  for  no  better  reason,  I 
should  fancy  you'd  be  glad  to  help  him.  He  has  the 
stamina  and  endurance." 

"Those,"  said  Horton,  who  at  heart  was  the  fairest 
and  most  generous  of  men,  "are  very  admirable  quali 
ties  Perhaps,  I  should  be  more  enthusiastic,  Drennie, 
if  you  were  a  little  less  so." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  talk  had  so  narrowly 
skirted  a  quarrel,  her  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  believe  you  are  jealous !"  she  announced. 

"Of  course,  I'm  jealous,"  he  replied,  without  evasion. 
"Possibly,  I  might  have  saved  time  in  the  first  place 
by  avowing  my  jealousy.  I  hasten  now  to  make  amends. 
7Vn  green-eyed." 

She  laid  her  gloved  fingers  lightly  on  his  bridle  hand. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     215 

"Don't  be,"  she  advised;  "I'm  not  in  love  with  him. 
If  I  were,  it  wouldn't  matter.  He  has 

"  'A  neater,  sweeter  maiden, 
"  'In  a  greener,  cleaner  land.' 

He's  told  me  all  about  her." 

Horton  shook  his  head,  dubiously. 

"I  wish  to  the  good  Lord,  he'd  go  back  to  her,"  he 
said.  "This  Platonic  proposition  is  the  doormat  ove*- 
which  two  persons  walk  to  other  things.  They  end  by 
wiping  their  feet  on  the  Platonic  doormat." 

"We'll  cross  that — that  imaginary  doormat,  when 
we  get  to  it,"  laughed  the  girl.  "Meantime,  you  ought 
to  help  me  with  Samson." 

"Thank  you,  no !  I  won't  help  educate  my  successor. 
And  I  won't  abdicate" — his  manner  of  speech  grew 
suddenly  tense — "while  I  can  fight  for  my  foothold." 

"I  haven't  asked  you  to  abdicate.  This  boy  has  been 
here  less  than  a  year.  He  came  absolutely  raw " 

"And  lit  all  spraddled  out  in  the  police  court!"  Wil 
fred  prompted. 

"And,  in  less  than  a  year,  he  has  made  wonderful 
advancement;  such  advancement  as  he  could  not  have 
made  but  for  one  thing." 

"Which  was — that  you  took  him  in  hand." 

"No — which  is,  that  he  springs  from  stock  that, 
despite  its  hundred  years  of  lapse  into  illiteracy,  is 
good  stock.  Samson  South  was  a  gentleman,  Wilfred, 
two  hundred  years  before  he  was  born." 

"That,"  observed  her  companion,  curtly,  "was  som* 
time  ago." 


216     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

She  tossed  her  head,  impatiently. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let's  gallop." 

"No,"  protested  Wilfred,  his  face  becoming  peni 
tent.  "Just  a  moment !  I  retract.  It  is  I  who  am  the 
cad.  Please,  tell  Mr.  South  just  what  we  have  both 
said,  and  make  my  apologies  if  he'll  accept  them.  Of 
course,  if  you  insist,  I'll  meet  him.  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  meet  him  some  day,  anyhow.  But,  frankly,  Drennie, 
I  hate  the  man.  It  will  take  a  Herculean  effort  to  be 
decent  to  him.  Still,  if  you  say  so " 

"No,  Wilfred,"  she  declined,  "if  you  can't  do  it 
willingly,  I  don't  want  you  to  do  it  at  all.  It  doesn't 
matter  in  the  least.  Let's  drop  the  subject." 


CHAPTER  XX 

ONE  afternoon,  swinging  along  Fifth  Avenue  in 
his  down-town  walk,  Samson  met  Mr.  Farbish, 
who  fell  into  step  with  him,  and  began  to  make 
conversation. 

"By  the  way,  South,"  he  suggested  after  the  com 
monplaces  had  been  disposed  of,  "you'll  pardon  my  little 
prevarication  the  other  evening  about  having  met  you 
at  the  Manhattan  Club?" 

"Why  was  it  necessary?"  inquired  Samson,  with  a 
glance  of  disquieting  directness. 

"Possibly,  it  was  not  necessary,  merely  politic.  Of 
course,"  he  laughed,  "every  man  knows  two  kinds  of 
women.  It's  just  as  well  not  to  discuss  the  nectarines 
with  the  orchids,  or  the  orchids  with  the  nectarines." 

Samson  made  no  response.  But  Farbish,  meeting  his 
eyes,  felt  as  though  he  had  been  contemptuously  re 
buked.  His  own  eyes  clouded  with  an  impulse  of  resent 
ment.  But  it  passed,  as  he  remembered  that  his  plans 
involved  the  necessity  of  winning  this  boy's  confidence. 
An  assumption  of  superior  virtue,  he  thought,  came 
rather  illogically  from  Samson,  who  had  brought  to  the 
inn  a  young  woman  whom  he  should  not  have  exposed 
to  comment.  He,  himself,  could  afford  to  be  diplomatic. 
Accordingly,  he  laughed. 

"You  mustn't  take  me  too  literal^,  South,"  he  ex 
plained.  "The  life  here  has  a  tendency  to  make  us 

217 


218     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

cynical  in  our  speech,  even  though  we  may  be  quite  the 
reverse  in  our  practices.  In  point  of  fact,  I  fancy 
we  were  both  rather  out  of  our  element  at  Collasso's 
studio." 

At  the  steps  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  club,  Farbish  halted. 

"Won't  you  turn  in  here,"  he  suggested,  "and  assuage 
your  thirst?" 

Samson  declined,  and  walked  on.  But  when,  a  day  or 
two  later,  he  dropped  into  the  same  club  with  George 
Lescott,  Farbish  joined  them  in  the  grill — without 
invitation. 

"By  the  way,  Lescott,"  said  the  interloper,  with  an 
easy  assurance  upon  which  the  coolness  of  his  reception 
had  no  seeming  effect,  "it  won't  be  long  now  until  ducks 
are  flying  south.  Will  you  get  off  for  your  customary 
shooting?" 

"I'm  afraid  not."  Lescott's  voice  became  more 
cordial,  as  a  man's  will  whose  hobby  has  been  touched. 
"There  are  several  canvases  to  be  finished  for  ap 
proaching  exhibitions.  I  wish  I  could  go.  When  the 
first  cold  winds  begin  to  sweep  down,  I  get  the  fever. 
The  prospects  are  good,  too,  I  understand." 

"The  best  in  years!  Protection  in  the  Canadian 
breeding  fields  is  bearing  fruit.  Do  you  shoot  ducks, 
Mr.  South?"  The  speaker  included  Samson  as  though 
merely  out  of  deference  to  his  physical  presence. 

Samson  shook  his  head.  But  he  was  listening 
eagerly.  He,  too,  knew  that  note  of  the  migratory 
"honk"  from  high  overhead. 

"Samson,"  said  Lescott  slowly,  as  he  caught  the 
gleam  in  his  friend's  eyes,  "you've  been  working  too 
hard.  You'll  have  to  take  a  week  off,  and  try  your 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

hand.  After  you've  changed  your  method  from  rifle  to 
shotgun,  you'll  bag  your  share,  and  you'll  come  back 
fitter  for  work.  I  must  arrange  it." 

"As  to  that,"  suggested  Farbish,  in  the  manner  of 
one  regarding  the  civilities,  "Mr.  South  can  run  down 
to  the  Kenmore.  I'll  have  a  card  made  out  for  him." 

"Don't  trouble,"  demurred  Lescott,  coolly,  "I  can  fix 
that  up." 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure,"  smiled  the  other.  "I  sin 
cerely  wish  I  could  be  there  at  the  same  time,  but  I'm 
afraid  that,  like  you,  Lescott,  I  shall  have  to  give 
business  the  right  of  way.  However,  when  I  hear  that 
the  flights  are  beginning,  I'll  cell  Mr.  South  up,  and 
pass  the  news  to  him." 

Samson  had  thought  it  rather  singular  that  he  had 
never  met  Horton  at  the  Lescott  house,  though  Adrienne 
spoke  of  him  almost  as  of  a  member  of  the  family. 
However,  Samson's  visits  were  usually  in  his  intervals 
between  relays  of  work  and  Horton  was  probably  at 
such  times  in  Wall  Street.  It  did  not  occur  to  the 
mountaineer  that  the  other  was  intentionally  avoiding 
him.  He  knew  of  Wilfred  only  through  Adrienne's 
eulogistic  descriptions,  and,  from  hearsay,  liked  him. 

The  months  of  close  application  to  easel  and  books 
had  begun  to  tell  on  the  outdoor  man  in  a  softening  of 
Jmuscles  and  a  slight,  though  noticeable,  pallor.  The 
enthusiasm  with  which  he  attacked  his  daily  schedule 
carried  him  far,  and  made  his  progress  phenomenal, 
but  he  was  spending  capital  of  nerve  and  health,  and 
George  Lescott  began  to  fear  a  break-down  for  his 
protege.  Lescott  did  not  want  to  advise  a  visit  to  the 
mountains,  because  he  had  secured  from  the  boy  a 


220     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

promise  that,  unless  he  was  called  home,  he  would  give 
the  experiment  an  unbroken  trial  of  eighteen  months. 

If  Samson  went  back,  he  feared  his  return  would 
reawaken  the  sleeping  volcano  of  the  feud — and  he  could 
not  easily  come  away  again.  He  discussed  the  matter 
with  Adrienne,  and  the  girl  began  to  promote  in  the 
boy  an  interest  in  the  duck-shooting  trip — an  interest 
which  had  already  awakened,  despite  the  rifleman's 
inherent  contempt  for  shotguns. 

"You  will  be  in  your  blind,"  she  enthusiastically  told 
him,  "before  daybreak,  and  after  a  while  the  wedges 
will  come  flying  into  view,  cutting  the  fog  in  hundreds 
and  dropping  into  the  decoys.  You'll  love  it!  I  wish 
I  were  going  myself." 

"Do  you  shoot?"  he  asked,  in  some  surprise. 

She  nodded,  and  added  modestly : 

"But  I  don't  kill  many  ducks." 

"Is  there  anything  you  can't  do?"  he  questioned  in 
admiration,  then  demanded,  with  the  touch  of  homesick 
ness  in  his  voice,  "Are  there  any  mountains  down  there?" 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  provide  any  mountains,"  laughed 
Adrienne.  "Just  salt  marshes — and  beyond  them,  the 
sea.  But  there's  moonshine — of  the  natural  variety — 
and  a  tonic  in  the  wind  that  buffets  you." 

"I  reckon  I'd  like  it,  all  right,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
bring  you  back  some  ducks,  if  I'm  lucky." 

So,  Lescott  arranged  the  outfit,  and  Samson  awaited 
the  news  of  the  coming  flights. 

That  same  evening,  Farbish  dropped  into  the  studio, 
explaining  that  he  had  been  buying  a  picture  at  Col- 
lasso's,  and  had  taken  the  opportunity  to  stop  by  and 
hand  Samson  a  visitor's  card  to  the  Kenmore  Club. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

He  found  the  ground  of  interest  fallow,  and  artfully 
sowed  it  with  well-chosen  anecdotes  calculated  to  stim 
ulate  enthusiasm. 

On  leaving  the  studio,  he  paused  to  say: 

"I'll  let  you  know  when  conditions  are  just  right." 
Then,  he  added,  as  though  in  afterthought:  "And  I'll 
arrange  so  that  you  won't  run  up  on  Wilfred  Horton." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Wilfred  Horton?"  de 
manded  Samson,  a  shade  curtly. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  replied  Farbish,  with  entire  gravity. 
"Personally,  I  like  Horton  immensely.  I  simply  thought 
you  might  find  things  more  congenial  when  he  wasn't 
among  those  present." 

Samson  was  puzzled,  but  he  did  not  fancy  hearing 
from  this  man's  lips  criticisms  upon  friends  of  his 
friends. 

"Well,  I  reckon,"  he  said,  coolly,  "I'd  like  him,  too." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  other.  "I  supposed 
you  knew,  or  I  shouldn't  have  broached  the  topic." 

"Knew  what?" 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  demurred  the  visitor  with 
dignity.  "I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  the  subject.  I 
seem  to  have  said  too  much." 

"See  here,  Mr.  Farbish,"  Samson  spoke  quietly,  but 
imperatively ;  "if  you  know  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't 
meet  Mr.  Wilfred  Horton,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what 
it  is.  He  is  a  friend  of  my  friends.  You  say  you've 
said  too  much.  I  reckon  you've  either  said  too  much, 
or  too  little." 

Then,  very  insidiously  and  artistically,  seeming  all 
the  while  reluctant  and  apologetic,  the  visitor  proceeded 
to  plant  in  Samson's  mind  an  exaggerated  and  untrue 


S22     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

picture  of  Horton's  contempt  for  him  and  of  Horton's 
resentment  at  the  favor  shown  him  by  the  Lescotts. 

Samson  heard  him  out  with  a  face  enigmatically  set, 
and  his  voice  was  soft,  as  he  said  simply  at  the  end : 

"I'm  obliged  to  you." 

Farbish  had  hoped  for  more  stress  of  feeling,  but,  as 
Ihe  walked  home,  he  told  himself  that  the  sphinx-like 
features  had  been  a  mask,  and  that,  when  these  two  met, 
their  coming  together  held  potentially  for  a  clash.  He 
was  judge  enough  of  character  to  know  that  Samson's 
morbid  pride  would  seal  his  lips  as  to  the  interview — 
until  he  met  Horton. 

In  point  of  fact,  Samson  was  at  first  only  deeply 
wounded.  That  through  her  kindness  to  him  Adrienne 
was  having  to  fight  \is  battles  with  a  close  friend  he 
had  never  suspected.  Then,  slowly,  a  bitterness  began 
to  rankle,  quite  distinct  from  the  hurt  to  his  sensitive 
ness.  His  birthright  of  suspicion  and  tendency  to  foster 
hatreds  had  gradually  been  falling  asleep  under  the 
disarming  kindness  of  these  persons.  Now,  they  began 
to  stir  in  him  again  vaguely,  but  forcibly,  and  to  trouble 
him. 

Samson  did  not  appear  at  the  Lescott  house  for  two 
weeks  after  that.  He  had  begun  to  think  that,  if  his 
going  there  gave  embarrassment  to  the  girl  who  had 
been  kind  to  him,  it  were  better  to  remain  away. 

"I  don't  belong  here,"  he  told  himself,  bitterly.  "I 
reckon  everybody  that  knows  me  in  New  York,  except 
the  Lescotts,  is  laughing  at  me  behind  my  back." 

He  worked  fiercely,  and  threw  into  his  work  such  fire 
and  energy  that  it  came  out  again  converted  into  a 
baldness  of  stroke  and  an  almost  savage  vigor  of 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

drawing.  The  instructor  nodded  his  head  over  the  easel, 
and  passed  on  to  the  next  student  without  having  left 
the  defacing  mark  of  his  relentless  crayon.  To  the  next 
pupil,  he  said: 

"Watch  the  way  that  man  South  draws.  He's  not 
clever.  He's  elementally  sincere,  and,  if  he  goes  on,  the 
first  thing  you  know  he  will  be  a  portrait  painter.  He ' 
won't  merely  draw  eyes  and  lips  and  noses,  but  char 
acter  and  virtues  and  vices  showing  out  through  them." 

And  Samson  met  every  gaze  with  smoldering  sav 
agery,  searching  for  some  one  who  might  be  laughing 
at  him  openly,  or  even  covertly;  instead  of  behind  his 
back.  The  long-suffering  fighting  lust  in  him  craved 
opportunity  to  break  out  and  relieve  the  pressure  on 
his  soul.  But  no  one  laughed. 

One  afternoon  late  in  November,  a  hint  of  blizzards 
swept  snarling  down  the  Atlantic  seaboard  from  the 
polar  floes,  with  wet  flurries  of  snow  and  rain.  Off  on 
the  marshes  where  the  Kenmore  Club  had  its  lodge,  the 
live  decoys  stretched  their  clipped  wings,  and  raised 
their  green  necks  restively  into  the  salt  wind,  and 
listened.  With  dawn,  they  had  heard,  faint  and  far 
away,  the  first  notes  of  that  wild  chorus  with  which  the 
skies  would  ring  until  the  southerly  migrations  ended 
— the  horizon-distant  honking  of  high-flying  water  fowl. 

Then  it  was  that  Farbish  dropped  in  with  marching 
orders,  and  Samson,  yearning  to  be  away  where  there 
were  open  skies,  packed  George  Lescott's  borrowed 
paraphernalia,  and  prepared  to  leave  that  same  night. 

While  he  was  packing,  the  telephone  rang,  and  Sam 
son  heard  Adrienne's  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire* 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Where  have  you  been  hiding?"  she  demanded.  "I'll 
have  to  send  a  truant  officer  after  you." 

"I've  been  very  busy,"  said  the  man,  "and  I  reckon, 
after  all,  you  can't  civilize  a  wolf.  I'm  afraid  I've  been 
wasting  your  time." 

Possibly,  the  miserable  tone  of  the  voice  told  the  girl 
more  than  the  words. 

"You  are  having  a  season  with  the  blue  devils,"  she 
announced.  "You've  been  cooped  up  too  much.  This 
wind  ought  to  bring  the  ducks,  and " 

"Pm  leaving  to-night,"  Samson  told  her. 

"It  would  have  been  very  nice  of  you  to  have  run  up 
to  say  good-bye,"  she  reproved.  "But  I'll  forgive  you, 
if  you  call  me  up  by  long  distance.  You  will  get  there 
early  in  the  morning.  To-morrow,  I'm  going  to  Phila 
delphia  over  night.  The  next  night,  I  shall  be  at  the 
theater.  Call  me  up  after  the  theater,  and  tell  me  how 
you  like  it." 

It  was  the  same  old  frankness  and  friendliness  of 
voice,  and  the  same  old  note  like  the  music  of  a  reed 
instrument.  Samson  felt  so  comforted  and  reassured 
that  he  laughed  through  the  telephone. 

"I've  been  keeping  away  from  you,"  he  volunteered, 
"because  I've  had  a  relapse  into  savagery,  and  haven't 
been  fit  to  talk  to  you.  When  I  get  back,  I'm  coming 
up  to  explain.  And,  in  the  meantime,  I'll  telephone." 

On  the  train  Samson  was  surprised  to  discover  that, 
after  all,  he  had  Mr.  William  Farbish  for  a  traveling 
companion.  That  gentleman  explained  that  he  had 
found  an  opportunity  to  play  truant  from  business  for 
a  day  or  two,  and  wished  to  see  Samson  comfortably 
ensconced  and  introduced. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     225 

The  first  day  Farbish  and  Samson  had  the  place  to 
themselves,  but  the  next  morning  would  bring  others. 
Samson's  ideas  of  a  millionaires'  shooting-box  had  been 
vague,  but  he  had  looked  forward  to  getting  into  the 
wilds.  The  marshes  were  certainly  desolate  enough, 
and  the  pine  woods  through  which  the  buckboard 
brought  them.  But,  inside  the  club  itself,  the  Ken- 
tuckian  found  himself  in  such  luxurious  comfort  as  he 
could  not,  in  his  own  mind,  reconcile  with  the  idea  of 
"going  hunting."  He  would  be  glad  when  the  cushioned 
chairs  of  the  raftered  lounging-room  and  the  tinkle  of 
high-ball  ice  and  gossip  were  exchanged  for  the  salt  air 
and  the  blinds. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

BUT,  when  he  went  out  for  his  initiation,  in  the  raw 
blackness  before  daybreak,  and  lay  in  the  blind, 
with  only  his  guide  for  a  companion,  he  felt  far 
away  from  artificial  luxuries.  The  first  pale  streamers 
of  dawn  soon  streaked  the  east,  and  the  wind  charged 
cuttingly  like  drawn  sabers  of  galloping  cavalry.  The 
wooden  decoys  had  been  anchored  with  the  live  ducks 
swimming  among  them,  and  the  world  began  to  awake. 
He  drew  a  long  breath  of  contentment,  and  waited. 
Then  came  the  trailing  of  gray  and  blue  and  green 
mists,  and,  following  the  finger  of  the  silent  boatman, 
he  made  out  in  the  northern  sky  a  slender  wedge  of 
black  dots,  against  the  spreading  rosiness  of  the  hori 
zon.  Soon  after,  he  heard  the  clear  clangor  of  throats 
high  in  the  sky,  answered  by  the  nearer  honking  of  the 
live  decoys,  and  he  felt  a  throbbing  of  his  pulses  as  he 
huddled  low  against  the  damp  bottom  of  the  blind  and 
waited. 

The  lines  and  wedges  grew  until  the  sky  was  stippled 
with  them,  and  their  strong-throatcu  cries  were  a  stri 
dent  music.  For  a  time,  they  passed  in  seeming  thou 
sands,  growing  from  scarcely  visible  dots  into  speeding 
shapes  with  slender  outstretched  necks  and  bills,  pointed 
like  reversed  compass  needles  to  the  south.  As  yet, 
they  were  all  flying  high,  ignoring  with  lordly  indiffer 
ence  the  clamor  of  their  renegade  brothers,  who  shrieked 

226 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     227 

to  them  through  the  morning  mists  to  drop  down,  and 
feed  on  death. 

But,  as  the  day  grew  older,  Samson  heard  the  pop 
ping  of  guns  off  to  the  side,  where  other  gunners  lay 
in  other  blinds,  and  presently  a  drake  veered  from  his 
line  of  flight,  far  off  to  the  right,  harkened  to  the  voice 
of  temptation,  and  led  his  flock  circling  toward  the 
blind.  Then,  with  a  whir  and  drumming  of  dark-tipped 
wings,  they  came  down,  and  struck  the  water,  and  the 
boy  from  Misery  rose  up,  shooting  as  he  came.  He 
heard  the  popping  of  his  guide's  gun  at  his  side,  and 
saw  the  dead  and  crippled  birds  falling  about  him,  amid 
the  noisy  clamor  of  their  started  flight. 

That  day,  while  the  mountaineer  was  out  on  the  flats, 
the  party  of  men  at  the  club  had  been  swelled  to  a  total 
of  six,  for  in  pursuance  of  the  carefully  arranged  plans 
of  Mr.  Farbish,  Mr.  Bradburn  had  succeeded  in  inducing 
Wilfred  Horton  to  run  down  for  a  day  or  two  of  the 
sport  he  loved.  To  outward  seeming,  the  trip  which  the 
two  men  had  made  together  had  been  quite  casual,  and 
the  outgrowth  of  coincidence ;  yet,  in  point  of  fact,  not 
only  the  drive  from  Baltimore  in  Horton' s  car,  but  the 
conversation  by  the  way  had  been  in  pursuance  of  a 
plan,  and  the  result  was  that,  when  Horton  arrived  that 
afternoon,  he  found  his  usually  even  temper  ruffled  by 
bits  of  maliciously  broached  gossip,  until  his  resentment 
against  Samson  South  had  been  fanned  into  danger 
heat.  He  did  not  know  that  South  also  was  at  the  club, 
and  he  did  not  that  afternoon  go  out  to  the  blinds, 
but  so  far  departed  from  his  usual  custom  as  to  permit 
himself  to  sit  for  hours  in  the  club  grill. 

And  yet,  as  is  often  the  case  in  carefully  designed 


228     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

affairs,  the  one  element  that  made  most  powerfully  for 
the  success  of  Farbish's  scheme  was  pure  accident. 
The  carefully  arranged  meeting  between  the  two  men, 
the  adroitly  incited  passions  of  each,  would  still  have 
brought  no  clash,  had  not  Wilfred  Horton  been  affected 
by  the  flushing  effect  of  alcohol.  Since  his  college  days, 
he  had  been  invariably  abstemious.  To-night  marked 
an  exception. 

He  was  rather  surprised  at  the  cordiality  of  the  wel 
come  accorded  him,  for,  as  chance  would  have  it,  except 
for  Samson  South,  whom  he  had  not  yet  seen,  all  the 
other  sportsmen  were  men  closely  allied  to  the  political 
and  financial  elements  upon  which  he  had  been  making 
war.  Still,  since  they  seemed  willing.to  forget  for  the 
time  that  there  had  been  a  breach,  he  was  equally  so. 
Just  now,  he  was  feeling  such  bitterness  for  the  Ken- 
tuckian  that  the  foes  of  a  less-personal  sort  seemed 
unimportant. 

In  point  of  fact,  Wilfred  Horton  had  spent  a  very 
bad  day.  The  final  straw  had  broken  the  back  of  his 
usually  unruffled  temper,  when  he  had  found  in  his  room 
on  reaching  the  Kenmore  a  copy  of  a  certain  New  York 
weekly  paper,  and  had  read  a  page,  which  chanced  to  be 
lying  face  up  (a  chance  carefully  prearranged).  It  was 
an  item  of  which  Farbish  had  known,  in  advance  of  pub 
lication,  but  Wilfred  would  never  have  seen  that  sheet, 
had  it  not  been  so  carefully  brought  to  his  attention. 
There  were  hints  of  the  strange  infatuation  which  a 
certain  young  woman  seemed  to  entertain  for  a  par 
tially  civilized  stranger  who  had  made  his  entree  to 
New  York  via  the  Police  Court,  and  who  wore  his  hair 
long  in  imitation  of  a  Biblical  character  of  the  same 


name.  The  supper  at  the  Wigwam  Inn  was  mentioned, 
and  the  character  of  the  place  intimated.  Horton  felt 
this  objectionable  innuendo  was  directly  traceable  to 
Adrienne's  ill-judged  friendship  for  the  mountaineer, 
and  he  bitterly  blamed  the  mountaineer.  And,  while  he 
had  been  brooding  on  these  matters,  a  man  acting  as 
Farbish's  ambassador  had  dropped  into  his  room,  since 
Farbish  himself  knew  that  Horton  would  not  listen  to  his 
confidences.  The  delegated  spokesman  warned  Wilfred 
that  Samson  South  had  spoken  pointedly  of  him,  and 
advised  cautious  conduct,  in  a  fashion  calculated  to 
inflame. 

Samson,  it  was  falsely  alleged,  had  accused  him  of 
saying  derogatory  things  in  his  absence,  which  he  would 
hardly  venture  to  repeat  in  his  presence.  In  short,  it 
was  put  up  to  Horton  to  announce  his  opinion  openly, 
or  eat  the  crow  of  cowardice. 

That  evening,  when  Samson  went  to  his  room,  Far 
bish  joined  him. 

"I've  been  greatly  annoyed  to  find,"  he  said,  seating 
himself  on  Samson's  bed,  "that  Horton  arrived  to-day." 

"I  reckon  that's  all  right,"  said  Samson.  "He's  a 
member,  isn't  he?" 

Farbish  appeared  dubious. 

"I  don't  want  to  appear  in  the  guise  of  a  prophet  of 
/trouble,"  he  said,  "but  you  are  my  guest  here,  and  I 
must  warn  you.  Horton  thinks  of  you  as  a  'gun- 
fighter*  and  a  dangerous  man.  He  won't  take  chances 
with  you.  If  there  is  a  clash,  it  will  be  serious.  He 
doesn't  often  drink,  but  to-day  he's  doing  it,  and  may 
be  ugly.  Avoid  an  altercation  if  you  can,  but  if  it 
comes — "  He  broke  off  and  added  seriously:  "You 


230     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

will  have  to  get  him,  or  he  will  get  you.      Are  you 
armed?" 

The  Kentuckian  laughed. 

"I  reckon  I  don't  need  to  be  armed  amongst  gentle 
men." 

Farbish  drew  from  his  pocket  a  magazine  pistol. 

"It  won't  hurt  you  to  slip  that  into  your  clothes,"! 
he  insisted. 

For  an  instant,  the  mountaineer  stood  looking  at 
his  host  and  with  eyes  that  bored  deep,  but  whatever 
was  in  his  mind  as  he  made  that  scrutiny  he  kept  to 
himself.  At  last,  he  took  the  magazine  pistol,  turned 
it  over  in  his  hand,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Mr.  Farbish,"  he  said,  "I've  been  in  places  before 
now  where  men  were  drinking  who  had  made  threats 
against  me.  I  think  you  are  excited  about  this  thing. 
If  anything  starts,  he  will  start  it." 

At  the  dinner  table,  Samson  South  and  Wilfred  Hor- 
ton  were  introduced,  and  acknowledged  their  introduc 
tions  with  the  briefest  and  most  formal  of  nods.  Dur 
ing  the  course  of  the  meal,  though  seated  side  by  side, 
each  ignored  the  presence  of  the  other.  Samson  was, 
perhaps,  no  more  silent  than  usual.  Always,  he  was  the 
listener  except  when  a  question  was  put  to  him  direct, 
but  the  silence  which  sat  upon  Wilfred  Horton  was  a 
departure  from  his  ordinary  custom. 

He  had  discovered  in  his  college  days  that  liquor, 
instead  of  exhilarating  him,  was  an  influence  under  which 
he  grew  morose  and  sullen,  and  that  discovery  had  made 
him  almost  a  total  abstainer.  To-night,  his  glass  was 
constantly  filled  and  emptied,  and,  as  he  ate,  he  gazed 
ahead,  and  thought  resentfully  of  the  man  at  his  side. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     231 

When  the  coffee  had  been  brought,  and  the  cigars 
lighted,  and  the  servants  had  withdrawn,  Horton,  with 
the  manner  of  one  who  had  been  awaiting  an  oppor 
tunity,  turned  slightly  in  his  chair,  and  gazed  inso 
lently  at  the  Kentuckian. 

,  Samson  South  still  seemed  entirely  unconscious  of  the 
(other's  existence,  though  in  reality  no  detail  of  the  brew 
ing  storm  had  escaped  him.  He  was  studying  the  other 
faces  around  the  table,  and  what  he  saw  in  them 
appeared  to  occupy  him.  Wilfred  Horton's  cheeks  were 
burning  with  a  dull  flush,  and  his  eyes  were  narrowing 
with  an  unveiled  dislike.  Suddenly,  a  silence  fell  on 
the  party,  and,  as  the  men  sat  puffing  their  cigars, 
Horton  turned  toward  the  Kentuckian.  For  a  moment, 
he  glared  in  silence,  then  with  an  impetuous  exclamation 
of  disgust  he  announced: 

"See  here,  South,  I  want  you  to  know  that  if  I'd 
understood  you  were  to  be  here,  I  wouldn't  have  come. 
It  has  pleased  me  to  express  my  opinion  of  you  to  a 
number  of  people,  and  now  I  mean  to  express  it  to  you 
in  person." 

Samson  looked  around,  and  his  features  indicated 
neither  surprise  nor  interest.  He  caught  Farbish's  eye 
at  the  same  instant,  and,  though  the  plotter  said  noth 
ing,  the  glance  was  subtle  and  expressive.  It  seemed 
to  prompt  and  goad  him  on,  as  though  the  man  had  said : 

"You  mustn't  stand  that.    Go  after  him." 

"I  reckon" — Samson's  voice  was  a  pleasant  drawl — 
"it  doesn't  make  any  particular  difference,  Mr.  Hor 
ton." 

"Even  if  what  I  said  didn't  happen  to  be  particularly 
commendatory?"  inquired  Horton,  his  eyes  narrowing. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"So  long,"  replied  the  Kentuckian,  "as  what  you  said 
was  your  own  opinion,  I  don't  reckon  it  would  interest 
me  much." 

"In  point  of  fact" — Horton  was  gazing  with  steady 
hostility  into  Samson's  eyes — "I  prefer  to  tell  you.  I 
have  rather  generally  expressed  the  belief  that  you  are 
a  damned  savage,  unfit  for  decent  society." 

Samson's  face  grew  rigid  and  a  trifle  pale.  His  mouth 
set  itself  in  a  straight  line,  but,  as  Wilfred  Horton 
came  to  his  feet  with  the  last  words,  the  mountaineer 
remained  seated. 

"And,"  went  on  the  New  Yorker,  flushing  with  sud 
denly  augmenting  passion,  "what  I  said  I  still  believe 
to  be  true,  and  repeat  in  your  presence.  At  another 
time  and  place,  I  shall  be  even  more  explicit.  I  shall 
ask  you  to  explain — certain  things." 

"Mr.  Horton,"  suggested  Samson  in  an  ominously 
quiet  voice,  "I  reckon  you're  a  little  drunk.  If  I  were 
you,  I'd  sit  down." 

Wilfred's  face  went  from  red  to  white,  and  his  shoul 
ders  stiffened.  He  leaned  forward,  and  for  the  instant 
no  one  moved.  The  tick  of  a  hall  clock  was  plainly 
audible. 

"South,"  he  said,  his  breath  coming  in  labored  excite 
ment,  "defend  yourself!" 

Samson  still  sat  motionless. 

"Against  what?"  he  inquired. 

" Against  that!"  Horton  struck  the  mountain  man 
across  the  face  with  his  open  hand.  Instantly,  there 
was  a  commotion  of  scraping  chairs  and  shuffling  feet, 
mingled  with  a  chorus  of  inarticulate  protest.  Samson 
had  risen,  and,  for  a  second,  his  face  had  become  a  thing 


of  unspeakable  passion.  His  hand  instinctively  swept 
toward  his  pocket — and  stopped  half-way.  He  stood 
by  his  overturned  chair,  gazing  into  the  eyes  of  his 
assailant,  with  an  effort  at  self-mastery  which  gave  his 
chest  and  arms  the  appearance  of  a  man  writhing  and 
stiffening  under  electrocution.  Then,  he  forced  both 
hands  to  his  back  and  gripped  them  there.  For  a 
moment,  the  tableau  was  held,  then  the  man  from  the 
mountains  began  speaking,  slowly  and  in  a  tone  of  dead- 
level  monotony.  Each  syllable  was  portentously  dis 
tinct  and  clear  clipped. 

"Maybe  you  know  why  I  don't  kill  you.  .  . 
Maybe  you  don't.  ...  I  don't  give  a  damn  whether 
you  do  or  not.  .  .  .  That's  the  first  blow  I've  ever 
passed.  ...  I  ain't  going  to  hit  back.  .  .  .  You 
need  a  friend  pretty  bad  just  now.  .  .  .  For  certain 
reasons,  I'm  going  to  be  that  friend.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  see  that  this  thing  is  a  damned  frame-up?  .  .  . 
Don't  you  see  that  I  was  brought  here  to  murder  you,?" 
He  turned  suddenly  to  Farbish. 

"Why  did  you  insist  on  my  putting  that  in  my 
pocket" — Samson  took  out  the  pistol,  and  threw  it  down 
on  the  table-cloth  in  front  of  Wilfred,  where  it  struck 
and  shivered  a  half-filled  wine-glass — "and  why  did 
you  warn  me  that  this  man  meant  to  kill  me,  unless  I 
killed  him  first?  I  was  meant  to  be  your  catspaw  to 
put  Wilfred  Horton  out  of  your  way.  I  may  be  a  bar 
barian  and  a  savage,  but  I  can  smell  a  rat — if  it's  dead 
enough !" 

For  an  instant,  there  was  absolute  and  hushed  calm. 
Wilfred  Horton  picked  up  the  discarded  weapon  and 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

looked  at  it  in  bewildered  stupefaction,  then  slowly  his 
face  flamed  with  distressing  mortification. 

"Any  time  you  want  to  fight  me" — Samson  had 
turned  again  to  face  him,  and  was  still  talking  in  his 
deadly  quiet  voice — "except  to-night,  you  can  find  me. 
I've  never  been  hit  before  without  hitting  back.  That 
blow  has  got  to  be  paid  for — but  the  man  that's  really 
responsible  has  got  to  pay  first.  When  I  fight  you,  I'll 
fight  for  myself,  not  for  a  bunch  of  damned  murderers. 
,.  .  .  Just  now,  I've  got  other  business.  That  man 
framed  this  up!"  He  pointed  a  lean  finger  across  the 
table  into  the  startled  countenance  of  Mr.  Farbish. 
''He  knew!  He  has  been  working  on  this  job  for  a 
month.  I'm  going  to  attend  to  his  case  now." 

As  Samson  started  toward  Farbish,  the  conspirator 
rose,  and,  with  an  excellent  counterfeit  of  insulted  virtue, 
pushed  back  his  chair. 

"By  God,"  he  indignantly  exclaimed,  "you  mustn't 
try  to  embroil  me  in  your  quarrels.  You  must  apolo 
gize.  You  are  talking  wildly,  South." 

"Am  I?"  questioned  the  Kentuckian,  quietly;  "I'm 
going  to  act  wildly  in  a  minute." 

He  halted  a  short  distance  from  Farbish,  and  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  crumpled  scrap  of  the  offending 
magazine  page :  the  item  that  had  offended  Horton. 

"I  may  not  have  good  manners,  Mister  Farbish,' 
but  where  I  come  from  we  know  how  to  handle  varmints." 
He  dropped  his  voice  and  added  for  the  plotter's  ear 
only:  "Here's  a  little  matter  on  the  side  that  con 
cerns  only  us.  It  wouldn't  interest  these  other  gen 
tlemen."  He  opened  his  hand,  and  added:  "Here, 
eat  that !" 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     235 

Farbish,  with  a  frightened  glance  at  the  set  face  of 
the  man  who  was  advancing  upon  him,  leaped  back, 
and  drew  from  his  pocket  a  pistol — it  was  an  exact 
counterpart  of  the  one  with  which  he  had  supplied 
Samson. 

With  a  panther-like  swiftness,  the  Kentuckian  leaped 
forward,  and  struck  up  the  weapon,  which  spat  one 
ineffective  bullet  into  the  rafters.  There  was  a  momen 
tary  scuffle  of  swaying  bodies  and  a  crash  under  which 
the  table  groaned  amid  the  shattering  of  glass  and 
china.  Then,  slowly,  the  conspirator's  body  bent  back 
at  the  waist,  until  its  shoulders  were  stretched  on  the 
disarranged  cloth,  and  the  white  face,  with  purple  veins 
swelling  on  the  forehead,  stared  up  between  two  brown 
hands  that  gripped  its  throat. 

"Swallow  that!"  ordered  the  mountaineer. 

For  just  an  instant,  the  company  stood  dumfounded, 
then  a  strained,  unnatural  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Stop  him,  he's  going  to  kill  the  man !" 

The  odds  were  four  to  two,  and  with  a  sudden  rally 
to  the  support  of  their  chief  plotter,  the  other  con 
spirators  rushed  the  figure  that  stood  throttling  his 
victim.  But  Samson  South  was  in  his  element.  The 
dammed-up  wrath  that  had  been  smoldering  during  these 
last  days  was  having  a  tempestuous  outlet.  He  had 
found  men  who,  in  a  gentlemen's  club  to  which  he  had 
come  as  a  guest,  sought  to  use  him  as  a  catspaw  and 
murderer. 

They  had  planned  to  utilize  the  characteristics  upon 
which  they  relied  in  himself.  They  had  thought  that, 
if  once  angered,  he  would  relapse  into  the  feudist,  and 
_  jrget  that  his  surroundings  were  those  of  gentility  and 


236     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

civilization.  Very  well,  he  would  oblige  them,  but  not 
as  a  blind  dupe.  He  would  be  as  elementally  primitive 
as  they  had  pictured  him,  but  the  victims  of  his  savagery 
should  be  of  his  own  choosing.  Before  his  eyes  swam  a 
red  mist  of  wrath.  Once  before,  as  a  boy,  he  had  seen 
things  as  through  a  fog  of  blood.  It  was  the  day  when 
the  factions  met  at  Hixon,  and  he  had  carried  the  gun' 
of  his  father  for  the  first  time  into  action.  The  only 
way  his  eyes  could  be  cleared  of  that  fiery  haze  was 
that  they  should  first  see  men  falling. 

As  they  assaulted  him,  en  masse,  he  seized  a  chair, 
and  swung  it  flail-like  about  his  head.  For  a  few 
moments,  there  was  a  crashing  of  glass  and  china,  and 
a  clatter  of  furniture  and  a  chaos  of  struggle.  At  its 
center,  he  stood  wielding  his  impromptu  weapon,  and, 
when  two  of  his  assailants  had  fallen  under  its  sweeping 
blows,  and  Farbish  stood  weakly  supporting  himself 
against  the  table  and  gasping  for  the  breath  which  had 
been  choked  out  of  him,  the  mountaineer  hurled  aside 
his  chair,  and  plunged  for  the  sole  remaining  man. 
They  closed  in  a  clinch.  The  last  antagonist  was  a 
boxer,  and  when  he  saw  the  Kentuckian  advance  toward 
him  empty-handed,  he  smiled  and  accepted  the  gauge  of 
battle.  In  weight  and  reach  and  practice,  he  knew  that 
he  had  the  advantage,  and,  now  that  it  was  man  to 
man,  he  realized  that  there  was  no  danger  of  interfer 
ence  from  Horton.  But  Samson  knew  nothing  of  box 
ing.  He  had  learned  his  fighting  tactics  in  the  rough- 
and-tumble  school  of  the  mountains ;  the  school  of  "fist 
and  skull,"  of  fighting  with  hands  and  head  and  teeth, 
and  as  the  Easterner  squared  off  he  found  himself 
caught  in  a  flying  tackle  and  went  to  the  floor  locked  in 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     237 

an  embrace  that  carried  down  with  it  chairs  and 
furniture.  As  he  struggled  and  rolled,  pitting  his 
gymnasium  training  against  the  unaccustomed  assault 
of  cyclonic  fury,  he  felt  the  strong  fingers  of  two  hands 
close  about  his  throat  and  lost  consciousness. 

Samson  South  rose,  and  stood  for  a  moment  panting 
in  a  scene  of  wreckage  and  disorder.  The  table  was 
littered  with  shivered  glasses  and  decanters  and  china- 
ware.  The  furniture  was  scattered  and  overturned. 
Farbish  was  weakly  leaning  to  one  side  in  the  seat  to 
which  he  had  made  his  way.  The  men  who  had  gone 
down  under  the  heavy  blows  of  the  chair  lay  quietly 
where  they  had  fallen. 

Wilfred  Horton  stood  waiting.  The  whole  affair  had 
transpired  with  such  celerity  and  speed  that  he  had 
hardly  understood  it,  and  had  taken  no  part.  But,  as 
he  met  the  gaze  of  the  disordered  figure  across  the 
wreckage  of  a  dinner-table,  he  realized  that  now,  with 
the  preliminaries  settled,  he  who  had  struck  Samson  in 
the  face  must  give  satisfaction  for  the  blow.  Horton 
was  sober,  as  cold  sober  as  though  he  had  jumped  into 
ice-water,  and  though  he  was  not  in  the  least  afraid,  he 
was  mortified,  and,  had  apology  at  such  a  time  been 
possible,  would  have  made  it.  He  knew  that  he  had 
misjudged  his  man;  he  saw  the  outlines  of  the  plot  as 
plainly  as  Samson  had  seen  them,  though  more  tardily. 

Samson's  toe  touched  the  pistol  which  had  dropped 
from  Farbish's  hand  and  he  contemptuously  kicked  it 
to  one  side.  He  came  back  to  his  place. 

"Now,  Mr.  Horton,"  he  said  to  the  man  who  stood 
looking  about  with  a  dazed  expression,  "if  you're  still 
of  the  same  mind,  I  can  accommodate  you.  You  lied 


when  you  said  I  was  a  savage — though  just  now  it  sort 
of  looks  like  I  was,  and" — he  paused,  then  added — "and 
I'm  ready  either  to  fight  or  shake  hands.  Either  way 
suits  me." 

For  the  moment,  Horton  did  not  speak,  and  Samson 
slowly  went  on: 

"But,  whether  we  fight  or  not,  you've  got  to  shake 
hands  with  me  when  we're  finished.  You  and  me  ain't 
going  to  start  a  feud.  This  is  the  first  time  I've  ever 
refused  to  let  a  man  be  my  enemy  if  he  wanted  to.  I've 
got  my  own  reasons.  I'm  going  to  make  you  shake  hands 
with  me  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  but  if  you  want  to 
fight  first  it's  satisfactory.  You  said  awhile  ago  you 
would  be  glad  to  be  more  explicit  with  me  when  we  were 
alone — "  He  paused  and  looked  about  the  room. 
"Shall  I  throw  these  damned  murderers  out  of  here,  or 
will  you  go  into  another  room  and  talk?" 

"Leave  them  where  they  are,"  said  Horton,  quietly. 
"We'll  go  into  the  reading-room.  Have  you  killed  any 
of  them?'  ' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  other,  curtly,  "and  I  don't 
care." 

When  they  were  alone,  Samson  went  on : 

"I  know  what  you  want  to  ask  me  about,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  answer  you.  You  want  to  question  me  about 
Miss  Lescott.  Whatever  she  and  I  have  done  doesn't 
concern  you.  I  will  say  this  much:  if  I've  been  ignorant 
of  New  York  ways,  and  my  ignorance  has  embarrassed 
her,  I'm  sorry. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  she's  too  damned  good  for 
you — just  like  she's  too  good  for  me.  But  she  thinks 
more  of  you  than  she  does  of  me — and  she's  yours.  As 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     239 

for  me,  I  have  nothing  to  apologize  to  you  for.  Maybe, 
I  have  something  to  ask  her  pardon  about,  but  she  hasn't 
asked  it. 

"George  Lescott  brought  me  up  here,  and  befriended 
me.  Until  a  year  ago,  I  had  never  known  any  lif  e  except 
that  of  the  Cumberland  Mountains.  Until  I  met  Miss 
Lescott,  I  had  never  known  a  woman  of  your  world. 
She  was  good  to  me.  She  saw  that  in  spite  of  my  rough 
ness  and  ignorance  I  wanted  to  learn,  and  she  taught  me. 
You  chose  to  misunderstand,  and  dislike  me.  These  men 
saw  that,  and  believed  that,  if  they  could  make  you 
insult  me,  they  could  make  me  kill  you.  As  to  your  part,, 
they  succeeded.  I  didn't  see  fit  to  oblige  them,  but,  now 
that  I've  settled  with  them,  I'm  willing  to  give  you  satis 
faction.  Do  we  fight  now,  and  shake  hands  afterward, 
or  do  we  shake  hands  without  fighting?" 

Horton  stood  silently  studying  the  mountaineer. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed  at  last.  "And  you  are 
the  man  I  undertook  to  criticize!" 

"You  ain't  answered  my  question,"  suggested  Sam 
son  South. 

"South,  if  you  are  willing  to  shake  hands  with  me, 
I  shall  be  grateful.  I  may  as  well  admit  that,  if  you 
had  thrashed  me  before  that  crowd,  you  could  hardly 
have  succeeded  in  making  me  feel  smaller.  I  have  played 
into  their  hands.  I  have  been  a  damned  fool.  I  have 
riddled  my  own  self-respect — and,  if  you  can  afford  to 
accept  my  apologies  and  my  hand,  I  am  offering  you 
both." 

"I'm  right  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  the  mountain  boy, 
gravely.  "I  to^  vou  I'd  iiist  as  li*f  shake  hand*  »s 


240     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

fight.  .  .  .  But  just  now  I've  got  to  go  to  the 
telephone." 

The  booth  was  in  the  same  room,  and,  as  Horton 
waited,  he  recognized  the  number  for  which  Samson  was 
calling.  Wilfred's  face  once  more  flushed  with  the  old 
prejudice.  Could  it  be  that  Samson  meant  to  tell  Adri- 
enne  Lescott  what  had  transpired?  Was  he,  after  all, 
the  braggart  who  boasted  of  his  fights?  And,  if  not, 
was  it  Samson's  custom  to  call  her  up  every  evening 
for  a  good-night  message?  He  turned  and  went  into 
the  hall,  but,  after  a  few  minutes,  returned. 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  the  show.  .  .  ."  the  moun 
taineer  was  saying.  "No,  nothing  special  is  happening 
here — except  that  the  ducks  are  plentiful.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  like  it  fine.  .  .  .  Mr.  Horton's  here.  Wait  a 
minute — I  guess  maybe  he'd  like  to  talk  to  you." 

The  Kentuckian  beckoned  to  Horton,  and,  as  he  sur 
rendered  the  receiver,  left  the  room.  He  was  thinking 
with  a  smile  of  the  unconscious  humor  with  which  the 
girl's  voice  had  just  come  across  the  wire: 

"I  knew  that,  if  you  two  met  each  other,  you  would 
become  friends." 

"I  reckon,"  said  Samson,  ruefully,  when  Horton 
joined  him,  "we'd  better  look  around,  and  see  how  bad 
those  fellows  are  hurt  in  there.  They  may  need  a  doc 
tor."  And  the  two  went  back  to  find  several  startled 
servants  assisting  to  their  beds  the  disabled  combatants, 
and  the  next  morning  their  inquiries  elicited  the  infor 
mation  that  the  gentlemen  were  all  "able  to  be  about, 
but  were  breakfasting  in  their  rooms." 

Such  as  looked  from  their  windows  that  morning  saw 
an  unexpected  climax,  when  the  car  of  Mr.  Wilfred 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Horton  drove  away  from  the  club  carrying  the  man 
whom  they  had  hoped  to  see  killed,  and  the  man  they 
had  hoped  to  see  kill  him.  The  two  appeared  to  be  in 
excellent  spirits  and  thoroughly  congenial,  as  the  car 
rolled  out  of  sight,  and  the  gentlemen  who  were  left 
behind  decided  that,  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  the 
"extraordinary  spree"  of  last  night  had  best  go  unad- 
vertised  into  ancient  history. 


CHAPTER  XXH 

THE  second  year  of  a  new  order  brings  fewer  radi 
cal  changes  than  the  first.    Samson's  work  began 
to  forge  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  ordinary,  and  to 
show  symptoms  of  a  quality  which  would  some  day  give 
it  distinction.    Heretofore,  his  instructors  had  held  him 
rigidly  to  the  limitations  of  black  and  white,  but  now 
they  took  off  the  bonds,  and  permitted  him  the  colorful 
delight   of   attempting   to    express   himself   from   the 
palette.     It  was  like  permitting  a  natural  poet  to  leave 
prose,  and  play  with  prosody. 

Sometimes,  when  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  life 
he  had  left,  it  seemed  immensely  far  away,  as  though 
it  were  really  the  life  of  another  incarnation,  and  old 
ideas  that  had  seemed  axiomatic  to  his  boyhood  stood 
before  him  in  the  guise  of  strangers :  strangers  tattered 
and  vagabond.  He  wondered  if,  after  all,  the  new  gods 
were  sapping  his  loyalty.  At  such  times,  he  would  for 
days  keep  morosely  to  himself,  picturing  the  death-bed 
of  his  father,  and  seeming  to  hear  a  small  boy's  voice 
making  a  promise.  Sometimes,  that  promise  seemed 
monstrous,  in  the  light  of  his  later  experience.  But  it 
was  a  promise — and  no  man  can  rise  in  his  own  esteem 
by  treading  on  his  vows.  In  these  somber  moods,  there 
would  appear  at  the  edges  of  his  drawing-paper  terrible, 
vividly  graphic  little  heads,  not  drawn  from  any  present 
model.  They  were  sketched  in  a  few  ferociously  power- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

ful  strokes,  and  always  showed  the  same  malevolent 
visage — a  face  black  with  murder  and  hate-endowed,  the 
countenance  of  Jim  Asberry.  Sometimes  would  come  a 
wild,  heart-tearing  longing  for  the  old  places.  He 
wanted  to  hear  the  frogs  boom,  and  to  see  the  moon  spill 
a  shower  of  silver  over  the  ragged  shoulder  of  the  moun 
tain.  Pie  wanted  to  cross  a  certain  stile,  and  set  out 
for  a  certain  cabin  where  a  certain  girl  would  be.  He 
told  himself  that  he  was  still  loyal,  that  above  all  else 
he  loved  his  people.  When  he  saw  these  women,  whose 
youth  and  beauty  lasted  long  into  life,  whose  manners 
and  clothes  spoke  of  ease  and  wealth  and  refinement,  he 
saw  Sally  again  as  he  had  left  her,  hugging  his  "rifle- 
gun"  to  her  breast,  and  he  felt  that  the  only  thing  he 
wanted  utterly  was  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  Yes,  he 
would  return  to  Sally,  and  to  his  people — some  day. 
The  some  day  he  did  not  fix.  He  told  himself  that  the 
hills  were  only  thirty  hours  away,  and  therefore  he  could 
go  any  time — which  is  the  other  name  for  no  time.  He 
had  promised  Lescott  to  remain  here  for  eighteen 
months,  and,  when  that  interval  ended,  he  seemed  just 
on  the  verge  of  grasping  his  work  properly.  He  assured 
himself  often  and  solemnly  that  his  creed  was  un 
changed  ;  his  loyalty  untainted ;  and  the  fact  that  it  was 
necessary  to  tell  himself  proved  that  he  was  being 
weaned  from  his  traditions.  And  so,  though  he  often 
longed  for  home,  he  did  not  return.  And  then  reason 
would  rise  up  and  confound  him.  Could  he  paint 
pictures  in  the  mountains  ?  If  he  did,  what  would  he  do 
with  them?  If  he  went  back  to  that  hermit  life,  would 
he  not  vindicate  his  uncle's  prophecy  that  he  had  merely 
unplaced  himself?  And,  if  he  went  back  and  discharged 


24)4     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

his  promise,  and  then  returned  again  to  the  new  fascina 
tion,  could  he  bring  Sally  with  him  into  this  life — Sally, 
whom  he  had  scornfully  told  that  a  "gal  didn't  need  no 
1'arnin'?"  And  the  answer  to  all  these  questions  was 
only  that  there  was  no  answer. 

One  day,  Adrienne  looked  up  from  a  sheaf  of  his  very 
creditable  landscape  studies  to  inquire  suddenly: 

"Samson,  are  you  a  rich  man,  or  a  poor  one?" 

He  laughed.  "So  rich,"  he  told  her,  "that  unless  I 
can  turn  some  of  this  stuff  into  money  within  a  year  or 
two,  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  hoeing  corn." 

She  nodded  gravely. 

"Hasn't  it  occurred  to  you,"  she  demanded,  "that  m 
a  way  you  are  wasting  your  gifts?  They  were  talking 
about  you  the  other  evening — several  painters.  They 
all  said  that  you  should  be  doing  portraits." 

The  Kentuckian  smiled.  His  masters  had  been  telling 
him  the  same  thing.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  art 
through  the  appeal  of  the  skies  and  hills.  He  had  fol 
lowed  its  call  at  the  proselyting  of  George  Lescott,  who 
painted  only  landscape.  Portraiture  seemed  a  less- 
artistic  form  of  expression.  He  said  so. 

"That  may  all  be  very  true,"  she  conceded,  "but  you 
can  go  on  with  your  landscapes,  and  let  your  portraits 
pay  the  way.  With  your  entree,  you  could  soon  have 
a  very  enviable  clientele." 

"  'So  she  showed  me  the  way,  to  promotion  and  pay, 
And  I  learned  about  women  from  her,'  " 

quoted  Samson  with  a  laugh. 

"And,"  she  added,  "since  I  am  very  vain  and  mod- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     245 

erately  rich,  I  hereby  commission  you  to  paint  me,  just 
as  soon  as  you  learn  how." 

Farbish  had  simply  dropped  out.  Bit  by  bit,  the 
truth  of  the  conspiracy  had  leaked,  and  he  knew  that 
his  usefulness  was  ended,  and  that  well-lined  pocket- 
books  would  no  longer  open  to  his  profligate  demands. 
The  bravo  and  plotter  whose  measure  has  been  taken  is 
a  broken  reed.  Farbish  made  no  farewells.  He  had 

come  from  nowhere  and  his  going  was  like  his  coming. 

****** 

Sally  had  started  to  school.  She  had  not  announced 
that  she  meant  to  do  so,  but  each  day  the  people  of 
Misery  saw  her  old  sorrel  mare  making  its  way  to  and 
from  the  general  direction  of  Stagbone  College,  and 
they  smiled.  No  one  knew  how  Sally's  cheeks  flamed 
as  she  sat  alone  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  on  the  rock 
at  the  backbone's  rift.  She  was  taking  her  place,  mor 
bidly  sensitive  and  a  woman  of  eighteen,  among  little 
spindle-shanked  girls  in  short  skirts,  and  the  little  girls 
were  more  advanced  than  she.  But  she,  too,  meant  to 
have  "1'arnin' '  — as  much  of  it  as  was  necessary  to  sat 
isfy  the  lover  who  might  never  come.  It  must  be  admit 
ted  that  learning  for  its  own  sake  did  not  make  a  clarion- 
tongued  appeal  to  the  girl's  soul.  Had  Samson  been 
satisfied  with  her  untutored,  she  would  have  been  con 
tent  to  remain  untutored.  He  had  said  that  these  things 
were  of  no  importance  in  her,  but  that  was  before  he  had 
gone  forth  into  the  world.  If,  she  naively  told  herself, 
he  should  come  back  of  that  same  opinion,  she  would 
never  "let  on"  that  she  had  learned  things.  She  would 
toss  overboard  her  acquirements  as  ruthlessly  as  useless 
ballast  from  an  over-encumbered  boat.  But,  if  Samson 


came  demanding  these  attainments,  he  must  find  her 
possessed  of  them.  So  far,  her  idea  of  "1'arnin' " 
embraced  the  three  R's  only.  And,  yet,  the  "fotched- 
on"  teachers  at  the  "college"  thought  her  the  most 
voraciously  ambitious  pupil  they  had  ever  had,  so  unflag- 
gingly  did  she  toil,  and  the  most  remarkably  acquisitive, 
so  fast  did  she  learn.  But  her  studies  had  again  been 
interrupted,  and  Miss  Grover,  her  teacher,  riding  over 
one  day  to  find  out  why  her  prize  scholar  had  deserted, 
met  in  the  road  an  empty  "jolt-wagon,"  followed  by  a 
ragged  cortege  of  mounted  men  and  women,  whose  faces 
were  still  lugubrious  with  the  eif  ort  of  recent  mourning. 
Her  questions  elicited  the  information  that  they  were 
returning  from  the  "buryin'  "  of  the  Widow  Miller. 

Sally  was  not  in  the  procession,  and  the  teacher,  riding 
on,  found  her  lying  face  down  among  the  briars  of  the 
desolate  meeting-house  yard,  her  small  body  convulsively 
heaving  with  her  weeping,  and  her  slim  fingers  grasping 
the  thorny  briar  shoots  as  though  she  would  still  hold 
to  the  earth  that  lay  in  freshly  broken  clods  over  her 
mother's  grave. 

Miss  Grover  lifted  her  gently,  and  at  first  the  girl 
only  stared  at  her  out  of  wide,  unseeing  eyes. 

"You've  nothing  to  keep  you  here  now,"  said  the 
older  woman,  gently.  "You  can  come  to  us,  and  live 
at  the  college."  She  had  learned  from  Sally's  lips  that 
she  lived  alone  with  her  mother  and  younger  brother. 
"You  can't  go  on  living  there  now." 

But  the  girl  drew  away,  and  shook  her  head  with  a 
wild  torrent  of  childish  dissent. 

"No,  I  kain't,  neither!"  she  declared,  violently.  "I 
kain't !" 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     247 

"Why,  dear?"  The  teacher  took  the  palpitating 
little  figure  in  her  arms  and  kissed  the  wet  face.  She 
had  learned  something  of  this  sweet  wood-thrush  girl, 
and  had  seen  both  sides  of  life's  coin  enough  to  be  able 
to  close  her  eyes  and  ears,  and  visualize  the  woman  that 
•this  might  be. 

"  'Cause  I  kain't !"  was  the  obstinate  reply. 

Being  wise,  Miss  Grover  desisted  from  urging,  and 
went  with  Sally  to  the  desolated  cabin,  which  she 
straightway  began  to  overhaul  and  put  to  rights.  The 
widow  had  been  dying  for  a  week.  It  was  when  she 
lifted  Samson's  gun  with  the  purpose  of  sweeping  the 
corner  that  the  girl  swooped  down  on  her,  and  rescued 
the  weapon  from  her  grasp. 

"Nobody  but  me  mustn't  tech  thet  rifle-gun,"  she 
exclaimed,  and  then,  little  by  little,  it  came  out  that  the 
reason  Sally  could  not  leave  this  cabin,  was  because 
some  time  there  might  be  a  whippoorwill  call  out  by  the 
stile,  and,  when  it  came,  she  must  be  there  to  answer. 
And,  when  at  the  next  vacation  Miss  Grover  rode  over, 
and  announced  that  she  meant  to  visit  Sally  for  a  month 
or  two,  and  when  under  her  deft  hands  the  cabin  began 
to  transform  itself,  and  the  girl  to  transform  herself, 
she  discovered  that  Sally  found  in  the  graveyard  an 
other  magnet.  There,  she  seemed  to  share  something 
with  Samson  where  their  dead  lay  buried.  While  the 
"fotched-on"  lady  taught  the  girl,  the  girl  taught  the 
"f otched-on"  lady,  for  the  birds  were  her  brothers,  and 
the  flowers  her  cousins,  and  in  the  poetry  that  existed 
before  forms  of  meter  came  into  being  she  was  deeply 
versed. 

Toward  the  end  of  that  year,  Samson  undertook  his 


248     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

portrait  of  Adrienne  Lescott.  The  work  was  nearing 
completion,  but  it  had  been  agreed  that  the  girl  herself 
was  not  to  have  a  peep  at  the  canvas  until  the  painter 
was  ready  to  unveil  it  in  a  finished  condition.  Often 
as  she  posed,  Wilfred  Horton  idled  in  the  studio  with 
them,  and  often  George  Lescott  came  to  criticize,  and 
left  without  criticizing.  The  girl  was  impatient  for 
the  day  when  she,  too,  was  to  see  the  picture,  concerning 
which  the  three  men  maintained  so  profound  a  secrecy. 
She  knew  that  Samson  was  a  painter  who  analyzed  with 
his  brush,  and  that  his  picture  would  show  her  not  only 
features  and  expression,  but  the  man's  estimate  of 
herself. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  one  day,  coming  out  from 
behind  his  easel  and  studying  her,  through  half-closed 
eyes,  "I  never  really  began  to  know  you  until  now? 
Analyzing  you — studying  you  in  this  fashion,  not  by 
your  words,  but  by  your  expression,  your  pose,  the  very 
unconscious  essence  of  your  personality — these  things 
are  illuminating." 

"Can  I  smile,"  she  queried  obediently,  "or  do  I  have 
to  keep  my  face  straight?" 

"You  may  smile  for  two  minutes,"  he  generously 
conceded,  "and  I'm  going  to  come  over  and  sit  on  the 
floor  at  your  feet,  and  watch  you  do  it." 

"And  under  the  X-ray  scrutiny  of  this  profound 
analysis,"  she  laughed,  "do  you  like  me?" 

"Wait  and  see,"  was  his  non-committal  rejoinder. 

For  a  few  moments,  neither  of  them  spoke.  He  sat 
there  gazing  up,  and  she  gazing  down.  Though  neither 
of  them  said  it,  both  were  thinking  of  the  changes  that 
had  taken  place  since,  in  this  same  room,  they  had  first 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS    249 

met.  The  man  knew  that  many  cf  the  changes  in  him 
self  were  due  to  her,  and  she  began  to  wonder  vaguely 
if  he  had  not  also  been  responsible  for  certain  differ 
ences  in  her. 

He  felt  for  her,  besides  a  deep  friendship — such  a 
deep  friendship  that  it  might  perhaps  be  even  more— 
a  measureless  gratitude.  She  had  been  loyal,  and  had 
turned  and  shaped  with  her  deft  hand  and  brain  the 
rough  clay  of  his  crude  personality  into  something  that 
was  beginning  to  show  finish  and  design.  Perhaps,  she 
liked  him  the  better  because  of  certain  obstinate  quali 
ties  which,  even  to  her  persuasive  influence,  remained 
unaltered.  But,  if  she  liked  him  the  better  for  these 
things,  she  yet  felt  that  her  dominion  over  him  was  not 
complete. 

Now,  as  they  sat  there  alone  in  the  studio,  a  shaft 
of  sunlight  from  the  skylight  fell  on  his  squarely 
blocked  chin,  and  he  tossed  his  head,  throwing  back  the 
long  lock  from  his  forehead.  It  was  as  though  he  was 
emphasizing  with  that  characteristic  gesture  one  of  the 
things  in  which  he  had  not  yielded  to  her  modeling. 
The  long  hair  still  fell  low  around  his  head.  Just  now, 
he  was  roughly  dressed  and  paint-stained,  but  usually 
he  presented  the  inconspicuous  appearance  of  the  well- 
groomed  man — except  for  that  long  hair.  It  was  not 
so  much  as  a  matter  of  personal  appearance  but  as  a 
reminder  of  the  old  roughness  that  she  resented  this. 
She  had  often  suggested  a  visit  to  the  barber,  but  to 
no  avail. 

"Although  I  am  not  painting  you,"  she  said  with  a 
smile,  "I  have  been  studying  you,  too.  As  you  stand 
there  before  your  canvas,  your  own  personality  is 


250     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBEREANDS 

revealed — and  I  have  not  been  entirely  unobservant 
myself." 

"  'And  under  the  X-ray  scrutiny  of  this  profound 
analysis,' "  he  quoted  with  a  laugh,  "do  you  like  me?'* 

"Wait  and  see,"  she  retorted. 

"At  all  events" — he  spoke  gravely — "you  must  try 
to  like  me  a  little,  because  I  am  not  what  I  was.  The 
person  that  I  am  is  largely  the  creature  of  your  own 
fashioning.  Of  course,  you  had  very  raw  material  to 
work  with,  and  you  can't  make  a  silk  purse  of" — he 
broke  off  and  smiled — "well,  of  me,  but  in  time  you  may: 
at  least  get  me  mercerized  a  little." 

For  no  visible  reason,  she  flushed,  and  her  next  ques 
tion  came  a  trifle  eagerly: 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  have  influenced  you?" 

"Influenced  me,  Drennie?"  he  repeated.  "You  have 
done  more  than  that.  You  have  painted  me  out,  and 
painted  me  over." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  in  her  eyes  danced  a  light 
of  subtle  coquetry. 

"There  are  things  I  have  tried  to  do,  and  failed," 
she  told  him. 

His  eyes  showed  surprise. 

"Perhaps,"  he  apologized,  "I  am  dense,  and  you 
may  have  to  tell  me  bluntly  what  I  am  to  do.  But  you 
know  that  you  have  only  to  tell  me." 

For  a  moment,  she  said  nothing,  then  she  shook  her 
head  again. 

"Issue  your  orders,"  he  insisted.  "I  am  waiting  to 
obey." 

She  hesitated  again,  then  said,  slowly : 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS    251 

"Have  your  hair  cut.  It's  the  one  uncivilized  thing 
about  you." 

For  an  instant,  Samson's  face  hardened. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  don't  care  to  do  that." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  she  laughed,  lightly.  "In  that 
event,  of  course,  you  shouldn't  do  it."  But  her  smile 
faded,  and  after  a  moment  he  explained: 

"You  see,  it  wouldn't  do." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I've  got  to  keep  something  as  it  was  to 
remind  me  of  a  prior  claim  on  my  life." 

For  an  instant  the  girl's  face  clouded,  and  grew 
deeply  troubled. 

"You  don't  mean,"  she  asked,  with  an  outburst  of 
interest  more  vehement  than  she  had  meant  to  show,  or 
realized  that  she  was  showing — "you  don't  mean  that 
you  still  adhere  to  ideas  of  the  vendetta?"  Then  she 
broke  off  with  a  laugh,  a  rather  nervous  laugh.  "Of 
course  not,"  she  answered  herself.  "That  would  be  too 
absurd !" 

"Would  it?"  asked  Samson,  simply.  He  glanced  at 
his  watch.  "Two  minutes  up,"  he  announced.  "The 
model  will  please  resume  the  pose.  By  the  way,  may  I 

drive  with  you  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

##*##* 

The  next  afternoon,  Samson  ran  up  the  street  steps 
of  the  Lescott  house,  and  rang  the  bell,  and  a  few 
moments  later  Adrienne  appeared.  The  car  was  waiting 
outside,  and,  as  the  girl  came  down  the  stairs  in  motor 
coat  and  veil,  she  paused  and  her  fingers  on  the  bannis 
ters  tightened  in  surprise  as  she  looked  at  the  man  who 
stood  below  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  with  his  face 


upturned.  The  well-shaped  head  was  no  longer  marred 
by  the  mane  which  it  had  formerly  worn,  but  was  close 
cropped,  and  under  the  transforming  influence  of  the 
change  the  forehead  seemed  bolder  and  higher,  and  to 
her  thinking  the  strength  of  the  purposeful  features 
was  enhanced,  and  yet,  had  she  known  it,  the  man  felt 
that  he  had  for  the  first  time  surrendered  a  point  which 
meant  an  abandonment  of  something  akin  to  principle. 

She  said  nothing,  but  as  she  took  his  hand  in  greet 
ing,  her  fingers  pressed  his  own  in  handclasp  more 
lingering  than  usual. 

Late  that  evening,  when  Samson  returned  to  the 
studio,  he  found  a  missive  in  his  letter-box,  and,  as  he 
took  it  out,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  postmark.  It  was 
dated  from  Hixon,  Kentucky,  and,  as  the  man  slowly 
climbed  the  stairs,  he  turned  the  envelope  over  in 
his  hand  with  a  strange  sense  of  misgiving  and 
premonition. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  letter  was  written  in  the  cramped  hand  of 
Brother  Spencer.  Through  its  faulty  diction  ran 
a  plainly  discernible  undernote  of  disapproval 
for  Samson,  though  there  was  no  word  of  reproof  or 
criticism.  It  was  plain  that  it  was  sent  as  a  matter 
of  courtesy  to  one  who,  having  proven  an  apostate, 
scarcely  merited  such  consideration.  It  informed  him 
that  old  Spicer  South  had  been  "mighty  porely,"  but 
was  now  better,  barring  the  breaking  of  age.  Every 
one  was  "tolerable."  Then  came  the  announcement 
which  the  letter  had  been  written  to  convey. 

The  term  of  the  South-Hollman  truce  had  ended,  and 
it  had.been  renewed  for  an  indefinite  period. 

"Some  of  your  folks  thought  they  ought  to  let  you 
know  because  they  promised  to  give  you  a  say,"  wrote 
the  informant.  "But  they  decided  that  it  couldn't 
hardly  make  no  difference  to  you,  since  you  have  left 
the  mountains,  and  if  you  cared  anything  about  it,  you 
knew  the  time,  and  could  of  been  here.  Hoping  this 
finds  you  well." 

Samson's  face  clouded.  He  threw  the  soiled  and 
scribbled  missive  down  on  the  table  and  sat  with  unseeing 
eyes  fixed  on  the  studio  wall.  So,  they  had  cast  him  out 
of  their  councils !  They  already  thought  of  him  as  one 
who  had  been. 

In  that  passionate  rush  of  feeling,  everything  that 
253 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

had  happened  since  he  had  left  Misery  seemed  artificial 
and  dream-like.  He  longed  for  the  realities  that  were 
forfeited.  He  wanted  to  press  himself  close  to  the  great, 
gray  shoulders  of  rock  that  broke  through  the  greenery 
like  giants  tearing  off  soft  raiment.  Those  were  his 
people  back  there.  He  should  be  running  with  the  wolf- 
pack,  not  coursing  with  beagles. 

He  had  been  telling  himself  that  he  was  loyal,  and 
now  he  realized  that  he  was  drifting  like  the  lotus-eaters. 
Things  that  had  gripped  his  soul  were  becoming  myths. 
Nothing  in  his  life  was  honest — he  had  become  as  they 
had  prophesied,  a  derelict.  In  that  thorn-choketl  grave 
yard  lay  the  crude  man  whose  knotted  hand  had  rested 
on  his  head  just  before  death  stiffened  it,  bestowing  a 
mission. 

"I  hain't  fergot  ye,  Pap."  The  words  rang  in  l~ls 
ears  with  the  agony  of  a  repudiated  vow. 

He  rose  and  paced  the  floor,  with  teeth  and  hands 
clenched,  and  the  sweat  standing  out  on  his  forehead. 
His  advisers  had  of  late  been  urging  him  to  go  to  Paric. 
He  had  refused,  and  his  unconfessed  reasoa  had  been 
that  in  Paris  he  could  not  answer  a  sudden  call.  He 
would  go  back  to  them  now,  and  compel  them  to  admit 
his  leadership. 

Then,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  unfinished  portrait  of 
Adrienne.  The  face  gazed  at  him  with  its  grave  sweet 
ness  ;  its  fragrant  subtlety  and  its  fine-grained  delicacy. 
Her  pictured  lips  were  silently  arguing  for  the  life  he 
had  found  among  strangers,  and  her  victory  would 
have  been  an  easy  one,  but  for  the  fact  that  just  now 
his  conscience  seemed  to  be  on  the  other  side.  Samson's 
civilization  was  two  years  old — a  thin  veneer  over  a 


THE  CAIX  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     255 

century  of  feudalism — and  now  the  century  was  thun 
dering  its  call  of  blood  bondage.  But,  as  the  man 
struggled  over  the  dilemma,  the  pendulum  swung  back. 
The  hundred  years  had  left,  also,  a  heritage  of  quick 
ness  and  bitterness  to  resent  injury  and  injustice.  His 
own  people  had  cast  him  out.  They  had  branded  him 
as  the  deserter ;  they  felt  no  need  of  him  or  his  counsel. 
Very  well,  let  them  have  it  so.  His  problem  had  been 
settled  for  him.  His  Gordian  knot  was  cut. 

Sally  and  his  uncle  alone  had  his  address.  This  letter, 
casting  him  out,  must  have  been  authorized  by  them, 
Brother  Spencer  acting  merely  as  amanuensis.  They, 
too,  had  repudiated  him — and,  if  that  were  true,  except 
for  the  graves  of  his  parents  the  hills  had  no  tie  to  hold 
him. 

"Sally,  Sally !"  he  groaned,  dropping  his  face  on  his 
crossed  arms,  while  his  shoulders  heaved  in  an  agony  of 
heart-break,  and  his  words  came  in  the  old  crude  syl 
lables  :  "I  'lowed  you'd  believe  in  me  ef  hell  froze !"  He 
rose  after  that,  and  made  a  fierce  gesture  with  his 
clenched  fists.  "All  right,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "I'm  shet 
of  the  lot  of  ye.  I'm  done !" 

But  it  was  easier  to  say  the  words  of  repudiation 
than  to  cut  the  ties  that  were  knotted  about  his  heart. 
Again,  he  saw  Sally  standing  by  the  old  stile  in  the 
starlight  with  sweet,  loyal  eyes  lifted  to  his  own,  and 
again  he  heard  her  vow  that,  if  he  came  back,  she 
would  be  waiting.  Now,  that  picture  lay  beyond  a 
sea  which  he  could  not  recross.  Sally  and  his  uncle 
had  authorized  his  excommunication.  There  was,  after 
all,  in  the  entire  world  no  faith  which  could  stand  unal 
terable,  and  in  all  the  world  no  reward  that  could  be 


a  better  thing  than  Dead-Sea  fruit,  without  the  love  of 
that  barefooted  girl  back  there  in  the  log  cabin, 
whose  sweet  tongue  could  not  fashion  phrases  except  in 
illiteracy.  He  would  have  gambled  his  soul  on  her  stead 
fastness  without  fear — and  he  bitterly  told  himself  he 
would  have  lost.  And  yet — some  voice  sounded  to  him 
as  he  stood  there  alone  in  the  studio  with  the  arteries 
knotted  on  his  temples  and  the  blood  running  cold  and 
bitter  in  his  veins — and  yet  what  right  had  he,  the 
deserter,  to  demand  faith?  One  hand  went  up  and 
clasped  his  forehead — and  the  hand  fell  on  the  hear*  'iiat 
had  been  shorn  because  a  foreign  woman  had  asked  it. 
What  tradition  had  he  kept  inviolate?  And,  in  his 
mood,  that  small  matter  of  shortened  hair  meant  as 
great  and  bitter  surrender  as  it  had  meant  to  the  Sam 
son  before  him,  whose  mighty  strength  had  gone  out 
under  the  snipping  of  shears.  What  course  was  open  to 
him  now,  except  that  of  following  the  precedent  of  the 
other  Samson,  of  pulling  down  the  whole  temple  of  his 
past?  He  was  disowned,  and  could  not  return.  He 
would  go  ahead  with  the  other  life,  though  at  the 
moment  he  hated  it. 

With  a  rankling  soul,  the  mountaineer  left  New  York. 
He  wrote  Sally  a  brief  note,  telling  her  that  he  was 
going  to  cross  the  ocean,  but  his  hurt  pride  forbade  his 
pleading  for  her  confidence,  or  adding,  "I  love  you." 
He  plunged  into  the  art  life  of  the  "other  side  of  the 
Seine,"  and  worked  voraciously.  He  was  trying  to  learn 
much — and  to  forget  much. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  when  Samson  had  been  in  the 
Quartier  Latin  for  eight  or  nine  months,  the  concierge 
of  his  lodgings  handed  him,  as  he  passed  through  the 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     257 

cour,  an  envelope  addressed  in  the  hand  of  Adrienne 
Lescott.  He  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  for  a  later  read 
ing  and  hurried  on  to  the  atelier  where  he  was  to  have 
a  criticism  that  day.  When  the  day's  work  was  over, 
he  was  leaning  on  the  embankment  wall  at  the  Quai  de 
Grand  St.  Augustin,  gazing  idly  at  the  fruit  and  flower 
stands  that  patched  the  pavement  with  color  and  at  the 
gray  walls  of  the  Louvre  across  the  Seine.  His  hand 
went  into  his  pocket,  and  came  out  with  the  note.  As 
he  read  it,  he  felt  a  glow  of  pleasurable  surprise,  and, 
wheeling,  he  retraced  his  steps  briskly  to  his  lodgings, 
where  he  began  to  pack.  Adrienne  had  written  that  she 
and  her  mother  and  Wilfred  Horton  were  sailing  for 
Naples,  and  commanded  him,  unless  he  were  too  busy,  to 
meet  their  steamer.  Within  two  hours,  he  was  bound  for 
Lucerne  to  cross  the  Italian  frontier  by  the  slate-blue 
waters  of  Lake  Maggiore. 

A  few  weeks  later  Samson  and  Adrienne  were  stand 
ing  together  by  moonlight  in  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum. 
The  junketing  about  Italy  had  been  charming,  and 
now,  in  that  circle  of  sepia  softness  and  broken  col 
umns,  he  looked  at  her,  and  suddenly  asked  himself: 

"Just  what  does  she  mean  to  you?" 

If  he  had  never  asked  himself  that  question  before, 
he  knew  now  that  it  must  some  day  be  answered. 
Friendship  had  been  a  good  and  seemingly  a  sufficient 
definition.  Now,  he  was  not  so  sure  that  it  could 
remain  so. 

Then,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  a  cabin  in  the  hills 
and  a  girl  in  calico.  He  heard  a  voice  like  the  voice 
of  a  song-bird  saying  through  tears : 


258     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"I  couldn't  live  without  ye,  Samson.  ...  I  jest 
couldn't  do  hit!" 

For  a  moment,  he  was  sick  of  his  life.  It  seemed 
that  there  stood  before  him,  in  that  place  of  historic 
wraiths  and  memories,  a  girl,  her  eyes  sad,  but  loyal 
and  without  reproof.  For  an  instant,  he  could  see  a 
scene  of  centuries  ago.  A  barbarian  and  captive  girl 
stood  in  the  arena,  looking  up  with  ignorant,  but  un 
flinching,  eyes ;  and  a  man  sat  in  the  marble  tiers  look 
ing  down.  The  benches  were  draped  with  embroidered 
rugs  and  gold  and  scarlet  hangings ;  the  air  was  heavy 
with  incense — and  blood.  About  him  sat  men  and 
women  of  Rome's  culture,  freshly  perfumed  from  the 
baths.  The  slender  figure  in  the  dust  of  the  circus  alone 
was  a  creature  without  artifice.  And,  as  she  looked  up, 
she  recognized  the  man  in  the  box.  the  man  who  had  once 
been  a  barbarian,  too,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the 
iron  gates  of  the  cages  whence  came  the  roar  of  the 
beasts,  and  waited  the  ordeal.  And  the  face  was  the 
face  of  Sally. 

"You  look,"  said  Adrienne,  studying  his  countenance 
in  the  pallor  of  the  moonlight,  "as  though  you  were 
seeing  ghosts." 

"I  am,"  said  Samson.    "Let's  go." 

Adrienne  had  not  yet  seen  her  portrait.  Samson 
had  needed  a  few  hours  of  finishing  when  he  left  New 
York,  though  it  was  work  which  could  be  done  away 
from  the  model.  So,  it  was  natural  that,  when  the 
party  reached  Paris,  Adrienne  should  soon  insist  on 
crossing  the  Pont  d*  Alexandre  III.  to  his  studio  near 
the  "Boule  Mich' "  for  an  inspection  of  her  commis 
sioned  canvas.  For  a  while,  she  wandered  about  the 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     259 

business-like  place,  littered  with  the  gear  of  the 
painter's  craft.  It  was,  in  a  way,  a  form  of  mind-read 
ing,  for  Samson's  brush  was  the  tongue  of  his  soul. 

The  girl's  eyes  grew  thoughtful,  as  she  saw  that  he 
still  drew  the  leering,  saturnine  face  of  Jim  Asberry. 
He  had  not  outgrown  hate,  then  ?  But  she  said  nothing, 
until  he  brought  out  and  set  on  an  easel  her  own  por 
trait.  For  a  moment,  she  gasped  with  sheer  delight  for 
the  colorful  mastery  of  the  technique,  and  she  would 
have  been  hard  to  please  had  she  not  been  delighted 
with  the  conception  of  herself  mirrored  in  the  canvas. 
It  was  a  face  through  which  the  soul  showed,  and  the 
soul  was  strong  and  'flawless.  The  girl's  personality 
radiated  from  the  canvas — and  yet —  A  disappointed 
little  look  crossed  and  clouded  her  eyes.  She  was  con 
scious  of  an  indefinable  catch  of  pain  at  her  heart. 

Samson  stepped  forward,  and  his  waiting  eyes,  too, 
were  disappointed. 

"You  don't  like  it,  Drennie  ?"  he  anxiously  questioned. 
But  she  smiled  in  answer,  and  declared : 

"I  love  it." 

He  went  out  a  few  minutes  later  to  telephone  for 
her  to  Mrs.  Lescott,  and  gave  Adrienne  carte  blanche 
to  browse  among  his  portfolios  and  stacked  canvases 
until  his  return.  In  a  few  minutes,  she  discovered 
one  of  those  efforts  which  she  called  his  "rebellious 
pictures." 

These  were  such  things  as  he  painted,  using  no  model 
except  memory  perhaps,  not  for  the  making  of  finished 
pictures,  but  merely  to  give  outlet  to  his  feelings;  an 
outlet  which  some  men  might  have  found  in  talk. 

This  particular  canvas  was  roughly  blocked  in,  and 


260     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

it  was  elementally  simple,  but  each  brush  stroke  had 
been  thrown  against  the  surface  with  the  concentrated 
fire  and  energy  of  a  blow,  except  the  strokes  that  had 
painted  the  face,  and  there  the  brush  had  seemed  to 
kiss  the  canvas.  The  picture  showed  a  barefooted  girl, 
standing,  in  barbaric  simplicity  of  dress,  in  the  glare  of 
the  arena,  while  a  gaunt  lion  crouched  eying  her.  Her 
head  was  lifted  as  though  she  were  listening  to  far 
away  music.  In  the  eyes  was  indomitable  courage. 
That  canvas  was  at  once  a  declaration  of  love,  and  a 
miserere.  Adrienne  set  it  up  beside  her  own  portrait, 
and,  as  she  studied  the  two  with  her  chin  resting  on 
her  gloved  hand,  her  eyes  cleared  of  questioning.  Now, 
she  knew  what  she  missed  in  her  own  more  beautiful 
likeness.  It  had  been  painted  with  all  the  admiration 
of  the  mind.  This  other  had  been  dashed  off  straight 
from  the  heart — and  this  other  was  Sally !  She  replaced 
the  sketch  where  she  had  found  it,  and  Samson,  return 
ing,  found  her  busy  with  little  sketches  of  the  Seine. 


"Drennie,"  pleaded  Wilfred  Horton,  as  the  two  leaned 
on  the  deck  rail  of  the  Mauretatiid,  returning  from 
Europe,  "are  you  going  to  hold  me  off  indefinitely? 
I've  served  my  seven  years  for  Rachel,  and  thrown  in 
seme  extra  time.  Am  I  no  nearer  the  goal?" 

The  girl  looked  at  the  oily  heave  of  the  leaden  and 
cheerless  Atlantic,  and  its  somber  tones  found  reflection 
in  her  eyes.  She  shook  her  head. 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  she  said,  wearily.  Then,  she  added, 
vehemently:  "I'm  not  worth  it,  Wilfred.  Let  me  go. 
Chuck  me  out  of  your  life  as  a  little  pig  who  can't  read 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     261 

her  own  heart ;  who  is  too  utterly  selfish  to  decide  upon 
her  own  life." 

"Is  it" — he  put  the  question  with  foreboding — "that, 
after  all,  I  was  a  prophet?  Have  you — and  South — • 
wiped  your  feet  on  the  doormat  marked  'Platonic 
friendship'?  Have  you  done  that,  Drennie?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  Her  own  were  wide 
and  honest  and  very  full  of  pain. 

"No,"  she  said ;  "we  haven't  done  that,  yet.  I  guess 
we  won't.  ...  I  think  he'd  rather  stay  outside, 
Wilfred.  If  I  was  sure  I  loved  him,  and  that  he  loved 
me,  I'd  feel  like  a  cheat — there  is  the  other  girl  to  think 
of.  .  .  .  And,  besides,  I'm  not  sure  what  I  want 
myself.  .  .  .  But  I'm  horribly  afraid  I'm  going  to 
end  by  losing  you  both." 

Horton  stood  silent.  It  was  tea-time,  and  from  below 
came  the  strains  of  the  ship's  orchestra.  A  few  ulster- 
muffled  passengers  gloomily  paced  the  deck. 

"You  won't  lose  us  both,  Drennie,"  he  said,  steadily. 
"You  may  lose  your  choice — but,  if  you  find  yourself 
able  to  fall  back  on  substitutes,  I'll  still  be  there, 
waiting." 

For  once,  he  did  not  meet  her  scrutiny,  or  know  of  it. 
His  own  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  slow  swing  of  heavy, 
gray-green  waters.  He  was  smiling,  but  it  is  as  a  man 
smiles  when  he  confronts  despair,  and  pretends  that 
everything  is  quite  all  right.  The  girl  looked  at  him 
with  a  choke  in  her  throat. 

"Wilfred,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  nis  arm, 
"I'm  not  worth  worrying  over.  Really,  I'm  not.  If 
Samson  South  proposed  to  me  to-day,  I  know  that  I 
should  refuse  him.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  am  the 


262     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

least  little  bit  in  love  with  him.  Only,  don't  you  see 
I  can't  be  quite  sure  I'm  not?  It  would  be  horrible 
if  we  all  made  a  mistake.  May  I  have  till  Christmas 
to  make  up  my  mind  for  all  time?  I'll  tell  you  then, 

dear,  if  you  care  to  wait." 

****** 

Tamarack  Spicer  sat  on  the  top  of  a  box  car,  swing 
ing  his  legs  over  the  side.  He  was  clad  in  overalls* 
and  in  the  pockets  of  his  breeches  reposed  a  bulging 
flask  of  red  liquor,  and  an  unbulging  pay  envelope. 
Tamarack  had  been  "railroading"  for  several  months 
this  time.  He  had  made  a  new  record  for  sustained 
effort  and  industry,  but  now  June  was  beckoning  him 
to  the  mountains  with  vagabond  yearnings  for  free 
dom  and  leisure.  Many  things  invited  his  soul.  Almost 
four  years  had  passed  since  Samson  had  left  the  moun 
tains,  and  in  four  years  a  woman  can  change  her  mind. 
Sally  might,  when  they  met  on  the  road,  greet  him  once 
more  as  a  kinsman,  and  agree  to  forget  his  faulty 
method  of  courtship.  This  time,  he  would  be  more 
diplomatic.  Yesterday,  he  had  gone  to  the  boss,  and 
"called  for  his  time."  To-day,  he  was  paid  off,  and  a 
free  lance. 

As  he  reflected  on  these  matters,  a  fellow  trainman 
came  along  the  top  of  the  car,  and  sat  down  at  Tam 
arack's  side.  This  brakeman  had  also  been  recruited 
from  the  mountains,  though  from  another  section — over 
toward  the  Virginia  line. 

"So  yer  quittin'  ?"  observed  the  new-comer. 

Spicer  nodded. 

"Goin*  back  thar  on  Misery?" 

Again,  Tamarack  answered  with  a  jerk  of  his  head. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     263 

"I've  been  layin*  off  ter  tell  ye  something  Tam'rack." 

"Cut  her  loose." 

"I  laid  over  in  Hixon  last  week,  an'  some  fellers  that 
used  ter  know  my  mother's  folks  took  me  down  in  the 
cellar  of  Hollman's  store,  an'  give  me  some  licker." 

"What  of  hit?" 

"They  was  talkin'  'bout  you." 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"I  seen  that  they  was  enemies  of  yours,  an'  they 
wasn't  in  no  good  humor,  so,  when  they  axed  me  ef  I 
knowed  ye,  I  'lowed  I  didn't  know  nothin'  good  about 
ye.  I  had  ter  cuss  ye  out,  or  git  in  trouble  myself." 

Tamarack  cursed  the  whole  Hollman  tribe,  and  his 
companion  went  on: 

"Jim  Asberry  was  thar.  He  'lowed  they'd  found  out 
thet  you'd  done  shot  Purvy  thet  time,  an'  he  said" — 
the  brakeman  paused  to  add  emphasis  to  his  conclusion 
— "thet  the  next  time  ye  come  home,  he  'lowed  ter  git 
ye  plumb  shore." 

Tamarack  scowled. 

"Much  obleeged,"  he  replied. 

At  Hixon,  Tamarack  Spicer  strolled  along  the  street 
toward  the  court-house.  He  wished  to  be  seen.  So 
long  as  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  he  displayed  no 
hostility,  he  knew  he  was  safe — and  he  had  plans. 

Standing  before  the  Hollman  store  were  Jim  Asberry 
and  several  companions.  They  greeted  Tamarack 
affably,  and  he  paused  to  talk. 

"Ridin'  over  ter  Misery  ?"  inquired  Asberry. 

"  'Lowed  I  mout  as  well." 

**Mind  ef  I  rides  with  ye  es  fur  es  Jesse's  place  ?" 

"Plumb  glad  ter  have  company,"  drawled  Tamarack. 


264s     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

They  chatted  of  many  things,  and  traveled  slowly, 
but,  when  they  came  to  those  narrows  where  they  could 
not  ride  stirrup  to  stirrup,  each  jockeyed  for  the  rear 
position,  and  the  man  who  found  himself  forced  into 
the  lead  turned  in  his  saddle  and  talked  back  over  his 
shoulder,  with  wary,  though  seemingly  careless,  eyes. 
Each' knew  the  other  was  bent  on  his  murder. 

At  Purvy's  gate,  Asberry  waved  farewell,  and  turned 
in.  Tamarack  rode  on,  but  shortly  he  hitched  his  horse 
in  the  concealment  of  a  hollow,  walled  with  huge  rocks, 
and  disappeared  into  the  laurel. 

He  began  climbing,  in  a  crouched  position,  bringing 
each  foot  down  noiselessly,  and  pausing  often  to  listen. 
Jim  Asberry  had  not  been  outwardly  armed  when  he 
left  Spicer.  But,  soon,  the  brakeman's  delicately  attuned 
ears  caught  a  sound  that  made  him  lie  flat  in  the  lee  of 
a  great  log,  where  he  was  masked  in  clumps  of  flowering 
rhododendron.  Presently,  Asberry  passed  him,  also 
walking  cautiously,  but  hurriedly,  and  cradling  a  Win 
chester  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  Then,  Tamarack 
knew  that  Asberry  was  taking  this  cut  to  head  him  off, 
and  waylay  him  in  the  gorge  a  mile  away  by  road  but 
a  short  distance  only  over  the  hill.  Spicer  held  his 
heavy  revolver  cocked  in  his  hand,  but  it  was  too  near 
the  Purvy  house  to  risk  a  shot.  He  waited  a  moment, 
and  then,  rising,  went  on  noiselessly  with  a  snarling 
grin,  stalking  the  man  who  was  stalking  him. 

Asberry  found  a  place  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  pine 
where  the  undergrowth  would  cloak  him.  Twenty  yards 
below  ran  the  creek-bed  road,  returning  from  its  long 
horseshoe  deviation.  When  he  had  taken  his  position, 
his  faded  butternut  clothing  matched  the  earth  as  incon- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     265 

spicuously  as  a  quail  matches  dead  leaves,  and  he  settled 
himself  to  wait.  Slowly  and  with  infinite  caution,  his 
intended  victim  stole  down,  guarding  each  step,  until 
he  was  in  short  and  certain  range,  but,  instead  of  being 
at  the  front,  he  came  from  the  back.  He,  also,  lay  flat 
on  his  stomach,  and  raised  the  already  cocked  pistol. 
He  steadied  it  in  a  two-handed  grip  against  a  tree 
trunk,  and  trained  it  with  deliberate  care  on  a  point 
to  the  left  of  the  other  man's  spine  just  below  the 
shoulder  blades. 

Then,  he  pulled  the  trigger !  He  did  not  go  down  to 
inspect  his  work.  It  was  not  necessary.  The  instan 
taneous  fashion  with  which  the  head  of  the  ambuscader 
settled  forward  on  its  face  told  him  all  he  wanted  to 
know.  He  slipped  back  to  his  horse,  mounted  and  rode 
fast  to  the  house  of  Spicer  South,  demanding  asylum. 

The  next  day  came  word  that,  if  Tamarack  Spicer 
would  surrender  and  stand  trial,  in  a  court  dominated 
by  the  Hollmans,  the  truce  would  continue.  Otherwise, 
the  "war  was  on." 

The  Souths  flung  back  this  message: 

"Come  and  git  him." 

But  Hollman  and  Purvy,  hypocritically  clamoring 
for  the  sanctity  of  the  law,  made  no  effort  to  come  and 
"git  him."  They  knew  that  Spicer  South's  house  was 
now  a  fortress,  prepared  for  siege.  They  knew  that 
every  trail  thither  was  picketed.  Also,  they  knew  a 
better  way.  This  time,  they  had  the  color  of  the  law 
on  their  side.  The  Circuit  Judge,  through  the  Sheriff, 
asked  for  troops,  and  troops  came.  Their  tents  dotted 
the  river  bank  below  the  Hixon  Bridge.  A  detail  under 
a  white  flag  went  out  after  Tamarack  Spicer.  The 


266     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

militia  Captain  in  command,  who  feared  neither  feudist 
nor  death,  was  courteously  received.  He  had  brains, 
and  he  assured  them  that  he  acted  under  orders  which 
could  not  be  disobeyed.  Unless  they  surrendered  the 
prisoner,  gatling  guns  would  follow.  If  necessary  they 
would  be  dragged  behind  ox-teams.  Many  militiamer. 
might  be  killed,  but  for  each  of  them  the  State  hac 
another.  If  Spicer  would  surrender,  the  officer  would 
guarantee  him  personal  protection,  and,  if  it  seemed 
necessary,  a  change  of  venue  would  secure  him  trial  in 
another  circuit.  For  hours,  the  clan  deliberated.  For 
the  soldiers  they  felt  no  enmity.  For  the  young  Cap 
tain  they  felt  an  instinctive  liking.  He  was  a  man. 

Old  Spicer  South,  restored  to  an  echo  of  his  former 
robustness  by  the  call  of  action,  gave  the  clan's  verdict. 

"Hit  hain't  the  co'te  we're  skeered  of.  Ef  this  boy 
goes  ter  town,  he  won't  never  git  inter  no  co'te.  He'll 
be  murdered." 

The  officer  held  out  his  hand. 

"As  man  to  man,"  he  said,  "I  pledge  you  my  word 
that  no  one  shall  take  him  except  by  process  of  law. 
I'm  not  working  for  the  Hollmans,  or  the  Purvys.  I 
know  their  breed." 

For  a  space,  old  South  looked  into  the  soldier's  eyes, 
and  the  soldier  looked  back. 

"I'll  take  yore  handshake  on  thet  bargain,"  said  the 
mountaineer,  gravely.  "Tam'rack,"  he  added,  in  a  voice 
of  finality,  "ye've  got  ter  go." 

The  officer  had  meant  what  he  said.  He  marched  his 
prisoner  into  Hixon  at  the  center  of  a  hollow  square, 
with  muskets  at  the  ready.  And  yet,  as  the  boy  passed 
into  the  court-house  yard,  with  a  soldier  rubbing  elbows 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     267 

on  each  side,  a  cleanly  aimed  shot  sounded  from  some 
where.  The  smokeless  powder  told  no  tale  and  with 
blue  shirts  and  army  hats  circling  him,  Tamarack  fell 
and  died. 

That  afternoon,  one  of  Hollman's  henchmen  was 
found  lying  in  the  road  with  his  lifeless  face  in  the  water 
of  the  creek.  The  next  day,  as  old  Spicer  South  stood 
at  the  door  of  his  cabin,  a  rifle  barked  from  the  hillside, 
and  he  fell,  shot  through  the  left  shoulder  by  a  bullet 
intended  for  his  heart.  All  this  while,  the  troops  were 
helplessly  camped  at  Hixon.  They  had  power  and  in 
clination  to  go  out  and  get  men,  but  there  was  no  man 
to  get. 

The  Hollmans  had  used  the  soldiers  as  far  as  they 
wished;  they  had  made  them  pull  the  chestnuts  out  of 
the  fire  and  Tamarack  Spicer  out  of  his  stronghold. 
They  now  refused  to  swear  out  additional  warrants. 

A  detail  had  rushed  into  Hollman's  store  an  instant 
after  the  shot  which  killed  Tamarack  was  fired.  Except 
for  a  woman  buying  a  card  of  buttons,  and  a  fair- 
haired  clerk  waiting  on  her,  they  found  the  building 
empty. 

Back  beyond,  the  hills  were  impenetrable,  and  an* 
«?wered  no  questions. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

OLD  SPICER  SOUTH  would  ten  years  ago  have t 
put  a  bandage  on  his  wound  and  gone  about  his  ' 
business,  but  now  he  tossed  under  his  patchwork 
quilt,    and    Brother    Spencer   expressed   grave   doubts 
for  his  recovery.     With  his  counsel  unavailable  Wile 
McCager,  by  common  consent,  assumed  something  like 
the  powers  of  a  regent  and  took  upon  himself  the  duties 
to  which  Samson  should  have  succeeded. 

That  a  Hollman  should  have  been  able  to  elude  the 
pickets  and  penetrate  the  heart  of  South  territory  to 
Spicer  South's  cabin,  was  both  astounding  and  alarm 
ing.  The  war  was  on  without  question  now,  ancl  there 
must  be  council.  Wile  McCager  had  sent  out  a  sum 
mons  for  the  family  heads  to  meet  that  afternoon  at  his 
mill.  It  was  Saturday — "mill  day" — and  in  accordance 
with  ancient  custom  the  lanes  would  be  more  traveled 
than  usual. 

Those  men  who  came  by  the  wagon  road  afforded  no 
unusual  spectacle,  for  behind  each  saddle  sagged  a  sack 
of  grain.  Their  faces  bore  no  stamp  of  unwonted 
excitement,  but  every  man  balanced  a  rifle  across  his 
pommel.  None  the  less,  their  purpose  was  grim,  and 
their  talk  when  they  had  gathered  was  to  the  point. 

Old  McCager,  himself  sorely  perplexed,  voiced  the 
sentiment  that  the  others  had  been  too  courteous  to 
express.  With  Spicer  South  bed-ridden  and  Samson  a 

268 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     269 

renegade,  they  had  no  adequate  leader.  McCager  was 
a  solid  man  of  intrepid  courage  and  honesty,  but  grind 
ing  grist  was  his  avocation,  not  strategy  and  tactics. 
The  enemy  had  such  masters  of  intrigue  as  Purvy  and 
Judge  Hollman. 

Then,  a  lean  sorrel  mare  came  jogging  into  view, 
switching  her  fly-bitten  tail,  and  on  the  mare's  back, 
urging  him  with  a  long,  leafy  switch,  sat  a  woman. 
Behind  her  sagged  the  two  loaded  ends  of  a  corn-sack. 
She  rode  like  the  mountain  women,  facing  much  to  the 
side,  yet  unlike  them.  Her  arms  did  not  flap.  She  did 
not  bump  gawkily  up  and  down  in  her  saddle.  Her  blue 
calico  dress  caught  the  sun  at  a  distance,  but  her  blue 
sunbonnet  shaded  and  masked  her  face.  She  was  lithe 
and  slim,  and  her  violet  eyes  were  profoundly  serious, 
and  her  lips  were  as  resolutely  set  as  Joan  of  Arc's 
might  have  been,  for  Sally  Miller  had  come  only 
ostensibly  to  have  her  corn  ground  to  meal.  She  had 
really  come  to  speak  for  the  absent  chief,  and  she  knew 
that  she  would  be  met  with  derision.  The  years  had 
sobered  the  girl,  but  her  beauty  had  increased,  though 
it  was  now  of  a  chastened  type,  which  gave  her  a 
strange  and  rather  exalted  refinement  of  expression. 

Wile  McCager  came  to  the  mill  door,  as  she  rode  up, 
^and  lifted  the  sack  from  her  horse. 

-'Howdy,  Sally?"  he  greeted. 

"Tol'able,  thank  ye,"  said  Sally.  "I'm  goin'  ter 
get  off." 

As  she  entered  the  great  half-lighted  room,  where  the 
mill  stones  creaked  on  their  cumbersome  shafts,  the  hum 
of  discussion  sank  to  silence.  The  place  was  brown  with 
age  and  dirt,  and  powdered  with  a  coarse  dusting  of 


270     THE. CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

meal.  The  girl  nodded  to  the  mountaineers  gathered  in 
conclave,  then,  turning  to  the  miller  she  announced: 

"I'm  going  to  send  for  Samson." 

The  statement  was  at  first  met  with  dead  silence, 
then  came  a  rumble  of  indignant  dissent,  but  for  that 
the  girl  was  prepared,  as  she  was  prepared  for  the 
contemptuous  laughter  which  followed. 

"I  reckon  if  Samson  was  here,"  she  said,  dryly,  "you 
all  wouldn't  think  it  was  quite  so  funny." 

Old  Caleb  Wiley  spat  through  his  bristling  beard, 
and  his  voice  was  a  quavering  rumble. 

"What  we  wants  is  a  man.  We  hain't  got  no  use  fer 
no  traitors  thet's  too  almighty  damn  busy  doin'  fancy 
work  ter  stand  by  their  kith  an'  kin." 

"That's  a  lie!"  said  the  girl,  scornfully.  "There's 
just  one  man  living  that's  smart  enough  to  match  Jesse 
Purvy — an'  that  one  man  is  Samson.  Samson's  got 
the  right  to  lead  the  Souths,  and  he's  going  to  do  it — 
ef  he  wants  to." 

"Sally,"  Wile  McCager  spoke,  soothingly,  "don't  go 
gittin'  mad.  Caleb  talks  hasty.  We  knows  ye  used  ter 
be  Samson's  gal,  an'  we  hain't  aimin'  ter  hurt  yore 
feelin's.  But  Samson's  done  left  the  mountings.  I 
reckon  ef  he  wanted  ter  come  back,  he'd  a-come  afore 
now.  Let  him  stay  whar  he's  at." 

"Whar  is  he  at?"  demanded  old  Caleb  Wiley,  in  a 
truculent  voice. 

"That's  his  business,"  Sally  flashed  back,  "but  I 
know.  All  I  want  to  tell  you  is  this.  Don't  you  make 
a  move  till  I  have  time  to  get  word  to  him.  I  tell  you, 
he's  got  to  have  his  say." 

"I  reckon  we  hain't  a-goin'  ter  wait,"  sneered  Caleb, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     271 

"fer  a  feller  thet  won't  let  hit  be  known  whar  he's 
a-sojournin'  at.  Ef  ye  air  so  shore  of  him,  why  won't 
ye  tell  us  whar  he  is  now?" 

"That's  my  business,  too."  Sally's  voice  was  reso 
lute.  "I've  got  a  letter  here — it'll  take  two  days  to  get 
to  Samson.  It'll  take  him  two  or  three  days  more  to 
get  here.  You've  got  to  wait  a  week." 

"Sally,"  the  temporary  chieftain  spoke  still  in  a 
patient,  humoring  sort  of  voice,  as  to  a  tempestuous 
child,  "thar  hain't  no  place  ter  mail  a  letter  nigher  then 
Hixon.  No  South  can't  ride  inter  Hixon,  an'  ride  out 
again.  The  mail-carrier  won't  be  down  this  way  fer 
two  days  yit." 

"I'm  not  askin'  any  South  to  ride  into  Hixon.  I  recol 
lect  another  time  when  Samson  was  the  only  one  that 
would  do  that,"  she  answered,  still  scornfully.  "I  didn't 
come  here  to  ask  favors.  I  came  to  give  orders — for 
him.  A  train  leaves  soon  in  the  morning.  My  letter's 
goin'  on  that  train." 

"Who's  goin'  ter  take  hit  ter  town  fer  ye?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  it  for  myself."  Her  reply  was 
given  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"That  wouldn't  hardly  be  safe,  Sally,"  the  miller 
demurred;  "this  hain't  no  time  fer  a  gal  ter  be  gala- 
vantin'  around  by  herself  in  the  night  time.  Hit's 
a-comin'  up  ter  storm,  an'  ye've  got  thirty  miles  ter 
ride,  an'  thirty-five  back  ter  yore  house." 

"I'm  not  scared,"  she  replied.  "I'm  goin'  an'  I'm 
warnin'  you  now,  if  you  do  anything  that  Samson  don't 
like,  you'll  have  to  answer  to  him,  when  he  comes."  She 
turned,  walking  very  erect  and  dauntless  to  her  sorrel 
mare,  and  disappeared  at  a  gallop. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"I  reckon,"  said  Wile  McCager,  breaking  the  silence 
at  last,  "hit  don't  make  no  great  difrence.  He  won't 
hardly  come,  nohow."  Then,  he  added:  "But  thet  boy 
is  smart." 


Samson's  return  from  Europe,  after  a  year's  study, 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  moderate  triumph.  With  the  art 
sponsorship  of  George  Lescott,  and  the  social  sponsor 
ship  of  Adrienne,  he  found  that  orders  for  portraits, 
from  those  who  could  pay  munificently,  seemed  to  seek 
him.  He  was  tasting  the  novelty  of  being  lionized. 

That  summer,  Mrs.  Lescott  opened  her  house  on 
Long  Island  early,  and  the  life  there  was  full  of  the  sort 
of  gaiety  that  comes  to  pleasant  places  when  young  men 
in  flannels  and  girls  in  soft  summery  gowns  and  tanned 
cheeks  are  playing  wholesomely,  and  singing  tunefully, 
and  making  love — not  too  seriously. 

Samson,  tremendously  busy  these  days  in  a  new  studio 
of  his  own,  had  run  over  for  a  week.  Horton  was,  of 
course,  of  the  party,  and  George  Lescott  was  doing 
the  honors  as  host.  Besides  these,  all  of  whom  regarded 
themselves  as  members  of  the  family,  there  was  a  group 
of  even  younger  folk,  and  the  broad  halls  and  terraces 
and  tennis  courts  rang  all  day  long  with  their  laughter, 
and  the  floors  trembled  at  night  under  the  rhythmical 
tread  of  their  dancing. 

Off  across  the  lawns  and  woodlands  stretched  the  blue, 
sail-flecked  waters  of  the  Sound,  and  on  the  next  hill 
rose  the  tile  roofs  and  cream-white  walls  of  the  country 
club. 

One    evening,    Adrienne    left    the    dancers    for    the 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     273 

pergola,  where  she  took  refuge  under  a  mass  of  honey 
suckle. 

Samson  South  followed  her.  She  saw  him  coming,  and 
smiled.  She  was  contrasting  this  Samson,  loosely  clad 
in  flannels,  with  the  Samson  she  had  first  seen  rising 
awkwardly  to  greet  her  in  the  studio. 

"You  should  have  stayed  inside  and  made  yourself 
agreeable  to  the  girls,"  Adrienne  reproved  him,  as  he 
came  up.    "What's  the  use  of  making  a  lion  of  you,  if 
you  won't  roar  for  the  visitors?" 

"I've  been  roaring,"  laughed  the  man.  "I've  just 
been  explaining  to  Miss  Willoughby  that  we  only  eat 
the  people  we  kill  in  Kentucky  on  certain  days  of  solemn 
observance  and  sacrifice.  I  wanted  to  be  agreeable  to 
you,  Drennie,  for  a  while." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sternly,  but  she  smiled  and 
made  a  place  for  him  at  her  side.  She  wondered  what 
form  his  being  agreeable  to  her  would  take. 

"I  wonder  if  the  man  or  woman  lives,"  mused  Sam 
son,  "to  whom  the  fragrance  of  honeysuckle  doesn't 
bring  back  some  old  memory  that  is  as  strong — and 
sweet — as  itself." 

The  girl  did  not  at  once  answer  him.  The  breeze 
was  stirring  the  hair  on  her  temples  and  neck.  The 
moon  was  weaving  a  lace  pattern  on  the  ground,  and 
filtering  its  silver  light  through  the  vines.  At  last,  she 
asked : 

"Do  you  ever  find  yourself  homesick,  Samson,  these 
days?" 

The  man  answered  with  a  short  laugh.  Then,  his 
words  came  softly,  and  not  his  own  words,  but  those  of 
one  more  eloquent: 


274     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"'Who  hath  desired  the  Sea?     Her  excellent  loneliness 

rather 
'*  'Than  the  forecourts  of  kings,  and  her  uttermost  pits 

than  the  streets  where  men  gather.     .     ,     . 
"  'His  Sea  that  his  being  fulfills  ? 
"  'So  and  no  otherwise — so  and  no  otherwise  hillmen 

desire  their  hills.'  " 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  ana  a  trace  of  the  argumentative 
stole  into  her  voice,  "you  haven't  gone  back." 

"No."  There  was  a  note  of  self-reproach  in  his  voice. 
"But  soon  I  shall  go.  At  least,  for  a  time.  I've  been 
thinking  a  great  deal  lately  about  'my  fluttered  folk 
and  wild.'  I'm  just  beginning  to  understand  my  rela 
tion  to  them,  and  my  duty." 

"Your  duty  is  no  more  to  go  back  there  and  throw 
away  your  life,"  she  found  herself  instantly  contending, 
"than  it  is  the  duty  of  the  young  eagle,  who  has  learned 
to  fly,  to  go  back  to  the  nest  where  he  was  hatched." 

"But,  Drennie,"  he  said,  gently,  "suppose  the  young 
eagle  is  the  only  one  that  knows  how  to  fly — and  sup 
pose  he  could  teach  the  others?  Don't  you  see?  I've 
only  seen  it  myself  for  a  little  while." 

"What  is  it  that — that  you  see  now?" 

"I  must  go  back,  not  to  relapse,  but  to  come  to  be  a 
constructive  force.  I  must  carry  some  of  the  outside 
world  to  Misery.  I  must  take  to  them,  because  I  am 
one  of  them,  gifts  that  they  would  reject  from  other 
hands." 

"Will  they  accept  them  even  from  you  ?" 

"Drennie,  you  once  said  that,  if  I  grew  ashamed  of 
my  people,  ashamed  even  of  their  boorish  manners,  their 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     275 

ignorance,  their  crudity,  you  would  have  no  use  for 
me." 

"I  still  say  that,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  them.  I  went  through 
that,  but  it's  over." 

She  sat  silent  for  a  while,  then  cried  suddenly : 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go !"  The  moment  she  had  said 
it,  she  caught  herself  with  a  nervous  little  laugh,  and 
added  a  postscript  of  whimsical  nonsense  to  disarm 
her  utterance  of  its  telltale  feeling.  "Why,  I'm  just 
getting  you  civilized,  yourself.  It  took  years  to  get 
your  hair  cut." 

He  ran  his  palm  over  his  smoothly  trimmed  head, 
and  laughed. 

"Delilah,  Oh,  Delilah !"  he  said.  "I  was  resolute,  but 
you  have  shorn  me." 

"Don't!"  she  exclaimed.     "Don't  call  me  that!" 

"Then,  Drennie,  dear,"  he  answered,  lightly,  "don't 
dissuade  me  from  the  most  decent  resolve  I  have  lately 
made." 

From  the  house  came  the  strains  of  an  alluring  waltz. 
For  a  little  time,  they  listened  without  speech,  then  the 
girl  said  very  gravely : 

"You  won't — you  won't  still  feel  bound  to  kill  your 
enemies,  will  you,  Samson?" 

The  man's  face  hardened. 

"I  believe  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  that.  I  shall  have 
to  win  back  the  confidence  I  have  lost.  I  shall  have  to 
take  a  place  at  the  head  of  my  clan  by  proving  myself 
a  man — and  a  man  by  their  own  standards.  It  is  only 
at  their  head  that  I  can  lead  them.  If  the  lives  of  a 
few  assassins  have  to  be  forfeited,  I  sha'n't  hesitate 


£76     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

at  that.  I  shall  stake  my  own  against  them  fairly. 
The  end  is  worth  it." 

The  girl  breathed  deeply,  then  she  heard  Samson's 
voice  again : 

"Drennie,  I  want  you  to  understand,  that  if  I  suc 
ceed  it  is  your  success.  You  took  me  raw  and  unfash- 
ioned,  and  you  have  made  me.  There  is  no  way  of 
thanking  you." 

"There  is  a  way,"  she  contradicted.  "You  can  thank 
me  by  feeling  just  that  way  about  it." 

"Then,  I  do  thank  you." 

She  sat  looking  up  at  him,  her  eyes  wide  and 
questioning. 

"Exactly  what  do  you  feel,  Samson,"  she  asked.  "I 
mean  about  me?" 

He  leaned  a  little  toward  her,  and  the  fragrance  and 
subtle  beauty  of  her  stole  into  his  veins  and  brain,  in 
a  sudden  intoxication.  His  hand  went  out  to  seize  hers. 
This  beauty  which  would  last  and  not  wither  into  a 
hag's  ugliness  with  the  first  breath  of  age — as  mountain 
beauty  does — was  hypnotizing  him.  Then,  he  straight 
ened  and  stood  looking  down. 

"Don't  ask  me  that,  please,"  he  said,  in  a  carefully 
controlled  voice.  "I  don't  even  want  to  ask  myself. 
My  God,  Drennie,  don't  you  see  that  I'm  afraid  to 
answer  that?" 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  stood  for  just  an  instant 
rather  unsteadily  before  him,  then  she  laughed. 

"Samson,  Samson !"  she  challenged.  "The  moon  is 
making  us  as  foolish  as  children.  Old  friend,  we  are 
growing  silly.  Let's  go  in,  and  be  perfectly  good 
hostesses  and  social  lions." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     277 

The  next  afternoon,  Adrienne  and  Samson  were  sit 
ting  with  a  gaily  chattering  group  at  the  side  lines 
of  the  tennis  courts. 

"When  you  go  back  to  the  mountains,  Samson," 
Wilfred  was  suggesting,  "we  might  form  a  partner- 
,  ship.  "South,  Horton  and  Co.,  development  of  coal 
l  and  timber.'  There  are  millions  in  it." 

"Five  years  ago,  I  should  have  met  you  with  a 
Winchester  rifle,"  laughed  the  Kentuckian.  "Now  I 
shall  not." 

"I'll  go  with  you,  Horton,  and  make  a  sketch  or 
two,"  volunteered  George  Lescott,  who  just  then  arrived 
from  town.  "And,  by  the  way,  Samson,  here's  a  let 
ter  that  came  for  you  just  as  I  left  the  studio." 

The  mountaineer  took  the  envelope  with  a  Hixon 
postmark,  and  for  an  instant  gazed  at  it  with  a  puzzled 
expression.  It  was  addressed  in  a  feminine  hand,  which 
he  did  not  recognize.  It  was  careful,  but  perfect, 
writing,  such  as  one  sees  in  a  school  copybook.  With  an 
apology  he  tore  the  covering,  and  read  the  letter. 
Adrienne,  glancing  at  his  face,  saw  it  suddenly  pale  and 
grow  as  set  and  hard  as  marble. 

Samson's  eyes  were  dwelling  with  only  partial  com 
prehension  on  the  script.  This  is  what  he  read : 

"DEAR  SAMSON:  The  war  is  on  again.  Tamarack 
Spicer  has  killed  Jim  Asberry,  and  the  Hollmans  have 
killed  Tamarack.  Uncle  Spicer  is  shot,  but  he  may 
get  well.  There  is  nobody  to  lead  the  Souths.  I  am 
trying  to  hold  them  down  until  I  hear  from  you.  Don't 
come  if  you  don't  want  to — but  the  gun  is  ready.  With 
love,  SAL.LY." 


278     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Slowly,  Samson  South  came  to  his  feet.  His  voice 
was  in  the  dead-level  pitch  which  Wilfred  had  once 
before  heard.  His  eyes  were  as  clear  and  hard  as  trans 
parent  flint. 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  of  trouble,  George,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"But  you  must  get  me  to  New  York  at  once — by  motor. 
I  must  take  a  train  South  to-night." 

"No  bad  news,  I  hope,"  suggested  Lescott. 

For  an  instant,  Samson  forgot  his  four  years  of 
veneer.  The  century  of  prenatal  barbarism  broke  out 
fiercely.  He  was  seeing  things  far  away — and  forget 
ting  things  near  by.  His  eyes  blazed  and  his  fingers 
twitched. 

"Hell,  no!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  war's  on,  and  my 
hands  are  freed!" 

For  an  instant,  as  no  one  spoke,  he  stood  breathing 
heavily,  then,  wheeling,  rushed  toward  the  house  as 
though  just  across  its  threshold  lay  the  fight  into  which 
he  was  aching  to  hurl  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

•  £\  AMSOX,  throwing  things  hurriedly  into  his  bag, 

^^5       heard  a  knock  on  his  door.     He  opened  it,  and 

outside  in  the  hall  stood  Adrienne.     Her  face 

was  pale,  and  she  leaned  a  little  on  the  hand  which 

rested  against  the  white  jamb. 

"What  does  it  mean?'  she  asked. 

He  came  over. 

"It  means,  Drennie,"  he  said,  "that  you  may  make 
a  pet  of  a  leopard  cub,  but  there  will  come  a  day  when 
something  of  the  jungle  comes  out  in  him — and  he 
must  go.  My  uncle  has  been  shot,  and  the  feud  is  on — 
I've  been  sent  for." 

He  paused,  and  she  half-whispered  in  an  appealing 
voice : 

"Don't  go." 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said,  quietly.  "If  it 
were  you,  you  would  go.  Whether  I  get  back  here  or 
not" —  he  hesitated — "my  gratitude  will  be  with  you — 
always."  He  broke  off,  and  said  suddenly :  "Drennie, 
I  don't  want  to  say  good-by  to  you.  I  can't." 

"It's  not  necessary  yet,"  she  answered.  "I'm  going 
to  drive  you  to  Xew  York." 

"No!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  too  far,  and  I've  got  to 
go  fast " 

"That's  why  I'm  going,"  she  promptly  assured  him. 
"I'm  the  only  fool  on  these  premises  that  can  get  all 

279 


280     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

the  speed  out  of  a  car  that's  in  her  engine — and  the 
constables  are  good  to  me.  I  just  came  up  here  to" — 
she  hesitated,  then  added — "to  see  you  alone  for  a 
moment,  and  to  say  that  teacher  has  never  had  such 
a  bright  little  pupil,  in  her  life — and" — the  flippancy 
with  which  she  was  masking  her  feeling  broke  and  she 
added,  in  a  shaken  voice  as  she  thrust  out  her  hand, 
man-fashion — "and  to  say,  God  keep  you,  boy." 

He  seized  the  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  gripped  it 
hard.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  only  shook  his  head  with 
a  rueful  smile. 

"I'll  be  waiting  at  the  door  with  the  car,"  she  told 
him,  as  she  left. 

Horton,  too,  came  in  to  volunteer  assistance. 

"Wilfred,"  said  Samson,  feelingly,  'there  isn't  any 
man  I'd  rather  have  at  my  back,  in  a  stand-up  fight. 
But  this  isn't  exactly  that  sort.  Where  I'm  going,  a 
fellow  has  got  to  be  invisible.  No,  you  can't  help,  now. 
Come  down  later.  We'll  organize  Horton,  South  and 
Co." 

"South,  Horton  and  Co.,"  corrected  Wilfred ;  "native 
sons  first." 

At  that  moment,  Adrienne  believed  she  had  decided 
the  long-mooted  question.  Of  course,  she  had  not. 
It  was  merely  the  stress  of  the  moment ;  exaggerating 
the  importance  of  one  she  was  losing  at  the  expense 
of  the  one  who  was  left.  Still,  as  she  sat  in  the  car 
waiting,  her  world  seemed  slipping  into  chaos  under 
her  feet,  and,  when  Samson  had  taken  his  place  at  her 
side,  the  machine  leaped  forward  into  a  reckless  plunge 
of  speed. 

Samson  stopped  at  his  studio,  and  threw  open  an 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBEKLANDS     281 

old  closet  where,  from  a  littered  pile  of  discarded  back 
ground  draperies,  canvases  and  stretchers,  he  fished  out 
a  buried  and  dust-covered  pair  of  saddlebags.  They 
had  long  lain  there  forgotten,  but  they  held  the  rusty 
clothes  in  which  he  had  left  Misery.  He  threw  them 
over  his  arm  and  dropped  them  at  Adrienne's  feet,  as 
he  handed  her  the  studio  keys. 

"Will  you  please  have  George  look  after  things,  and 
make  the  necessary  excuses  to  my  sitters?  He'll  find 
a  list  of  posing  appointments  in  the  desk." 

The  girl  nodded. 

"What  are  those?"  she  asked,  gazing  at  the  great 
leather  pockets  as  at  some  relic  unearthed  from  Pom- 
peian  excavations. 

"Saddlebags,  Drennie,"  he  said,  "and  in  them  are 
homespun  and  jeans.  One  can't  lead  his  'fluttered  folk 
and  wild'  in  a  cutaway  coat." 

Shortly  they  were  at  the  station,  and  the  man,  stand 
ing  at  the  side  of  the  machine,  took  her  hand. 

"It's  not  good-by,  you  know,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"Just  auf  Wicdersehen." 

She  nodded  and  smiled,  too,  but,  as  she  smiled,  she 
shivered,  and  turned  the  car  slowly.  There  was  no 
need  to  hurry,  now. 

\  Samson  had  caught  the  fastest  west-bound  express 
on  the  schedule.  In  thirty-six  hours,  he  would  be  at 
Hixon.  There  were  many  things  which  his  brain  must 
attack  and  digest  in  these  hours.  He  must  arrange 
his  plan  of  action  to  its  minutest  detail,  because  he 
would  have  as  little  time  for  reflection,  once  he  had 
reached  his  own  country,  as  a  wildcat  flung  into  a  pack 
of  hounds. 


282     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

From  the  railroad  station  to  his  home,  he  must  make 
his  way — most  probably  fight  his  way — through  thirty 
miles  of  hostile  territory  where  all  the  trails  were 
watched.  And  yet,  for  the  time,  all  that  seemed  too 
remotely  unreal  to  hold  his  thoughts.  He  was  seeing 
the  coolly  waving  curtains  of  flowered  chintz  that 
stirred  in  the  windows  of  his  room  at  the  Lescott  house 
and  the  crimson  ramblers  that  nodded  against  the  sky. 
He  was  hearing  a  knock  on  the  door,  and  seeing,  as  it 
opened,  the  figure  of  Adrienne  Lescott  and  the  look 
that  had  been  in  her  eyes. 

He  took  out  Sally's  letter,  and  read  it  once  more. 
He  read  it  mechanically  and  as  a  piece  of  news  that 
had  brought  evil  tidings.  Then,  suddenly,  another 
aspect  of  it  struck  him — an  aspect  to  which  the  shock 
of  its  reception  had  until  this  tardy  moment  blinded 
him.  The  letter  was  perfectly  grammatical  and  penned 
in  a  hand  of  copy-book  roundness  and  evenness.  The 
address,  the  body  of  the  missive,  and  the  signature,  were 
all  in  one  chirography.  She  would  not  have  intrusted 
the  writing  of  this  letter  to  any  one  else. 

Sally  had  learned  to  write! 

Moreover,  at  the  end  were  the  words  "with  love." 
It  was  all  plain  now.  Sally  had  never  repudiated  him. 
She  was  declaring  herself  true  to  her  mission  and  her 
love.  All  that  heartbreak  through  which  he  had  gone 
had  been  due  to  his  own  misconception,  and  in  that 
misconception  he  had  drawn  into  himself  and  had 
stopped  writing  to  her.  Even  his  occasional  letters 
had  for  two  years  ceased  to  brighten  her  heart-strang 
ling  isolation — and  she  was  still  waiting.  .  .  .  She 
had  sent  no  word  of  appeal  until  the  moment  had  come 


of  which  she  had  promised  to  inform  him.  Sally,  aban 
doned  and  alone,  had  been  fighting  her  way  up — that 
she  might  stand  on  his  level. 

"Good  God!"  groaned  the  man,  in  abjectly  bitter 
self-contempt.  His  hand  went  involuntarily  to  his 
»» cropped  head,  and  dropped  with  a  gesture  of  self- 
doubting.  He  looked  down  at  his  tan  shoes  and  silk 
socks.  He  rolled  back  his  shirtsleeve  and  contemplated 
the  forearm  that  had  once  been  as  brown  and  tough 
as  leather.  It  was  now  the  arm  of  a  city  man,  except 
for  the  burning  of  one  outdoor  week.  He  was  return 
ing  at  the  eleventh  hour — stripped  of  the  faith  of  his 
kinsmen,  half-stripped  of  "his  faith  in  himself.  If  he 
were  to  realize  the  constructive  dreams  of  which  he 
had  last  night  so  confidently  prattled  to  Adrienne,  he 
must  lead  his  people  from  under  the  blighting  shadow 
of  the  feud. 

Yet,  if  he  was  to  lead  them  at  all,  he  must  first 
regain  their  shaken  confidence,  and  to  do  that  he  must 
go,  at  their  head,  through  this  mire  of  war  to  vindica 
tion.  Only  a  fighting  South  could  hope  to  be  heard 
in  behalf  of  peace.  His  eventual  regeneration  belonged 
,  to  some  to-morrow.  To-day  held  the  need  of  such 
work  as  that  of  the  first  Samson — to  slay. 

He  must  reappear  before  his  kinsmen  as  much  as 
possible  the  boy  who  had  left  them — not  the  fop  with 
newfangled  affectations.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  sad 
dlebags  on  the  floor  of  the  Pullman,  and  he  smiled 
satirically.  He  would  like  to  step  from  the  train  at 
Hixon  and  walk  brazenly  through  the  town  in  those 
old  clothes,  challenging  every  hostile  glance  If  they 
shot  him  down  on  the  streets,  as  they  certainly  would 


284     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

do,  it  would  end  his  questioning  and  his  anguish  of 
dilemma.  He  would  welcome  that,  but  it  would,  after 
all,  be  shirking  the  issue. 

He  must  get  out  of  Hixon  and  into  his  own  country 
unrecognized.  The  lean  boy  of  four  years  ago  was 
the  somewhat  filled  out  man  now.  The  one  concession 
that  he  had  made  to  Paris  life  was  the  wearing  of  a 
closely  cropped  mustache.  That  he  still  wore — had 
worn  it  chiefly  because  he  liked  to  hear  Adrienne's 
humorous  denunciation  of  it.  He  knew  that,  in  his 
present  guise  and  dress,  he  had  an  excellent  chance 
of  walking  through  the  streets  of  Hixon  as  a  stranger. 
And,  after  leaving  Hixon,  there  was  a  mission  to  be 
performed  at  Jesse  Purvy's  store.  As  he  thought  of 
that  mission  a  grim  glint  came  to  his  pupils. 

All  journeys  end,  and  as  Samson  passed  through 
the  tawdry  cars  of  the  local  train  near  Hixon  he  saw 
several  faces  which  he  recognized,  but  they  either  eyed 
him  in  inexpressive  silence,  or  gave  him  the  greeting 
of  the  "furriner." 

Then  the  whistle  shrieked  for  the  trestle  over  the 
Middle  Fork,  and  at  only  a  short  distance  rose  the 
cupola  of  the  brick  court-house  and  the  scattered  roofs 
of  the  town.  Scattered  over  the  green  slopes  by  the 
river  bank  lay  the  white  spread  of  a  tented  company 
street,  and,  as  he  looked  out,  he  saw  uniformed  figures 
moving  to  and  fro,  and  caught  the  ring  of  a  bugle 
caM.  So  the  militia  was  on  deck;  things  must  be  bad, 
he  reflected.  He  stood  on  the  platfor^  and  looked 
down  as  the  engine  roared  along  the  trestle.  There 
were  two  goatling  guns.  One  pointed  its  muzzle  to 
ward  the  tovn,  and  the  othe**  .-coT.VJ  np  at  the  face 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     285 

of  the  mountain.  Sentries  paced  their  beats.  Men  in 
undershirts  lay  dozing  outside  tent  flaps.  It  was  all 
a  picture  of  disciplined  readiness,  and  yet  Samson  knew 
that  soldiers  made  of  painted  tin  would  be  equally 
effective.  These  military  forces  must  remain  subservi 
ent  to  local  civil  authorities,  and  the  local  civil  authori 
ties  obeyed  the  nod  of  Judge  Hollman  and  Jesse  Purvy. 

As  Samson  crossed  the  toll-bridge  to  the  town  proper 
he  passed  two  brown-shirted  militiamen,  lounging  on 
the  rail  of  the  middle  span.  They  grinned  at  him, 
and,  recognizing  the  outsider  from  his  clothes,  one  of 
them  commented: 

"Ain't  this  the  hell  of  a  town?" 

"It's  going  to  be,"  replied  Samson,  enigmatically,  as 
he  went  on. 

Still  unrecognized,  he  hired  a  horse  at  the  livery 
stable,  and  for  two  hours  rode  in  silence,  save  for  the 
easy  creaking  of  his  stirrup  leathers  and  the  soft 
thud  of  hoofs. 

The  silence  soothed  him.  The  brooding  hills  lulled 
his  spirit  as  a  crooning  song  lulls  a  fretful  child.  Mile 
after  mile  unrolled  forgotten  vistas.  Something  deep 
in  himself  murmured: 

"Home !" 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  he  saw  ahead  of  kin. 
the  orchard  of  Purvy's  place,  and  read  on  the  store- 
wall,  a  little  more  weather-stained,  but  otherwise  un 
changed  : 

"Jesse  Purvy,  General  Merchandise." 

The  porch  of  the  store  was  empty,  ana  as  Samson 
flung  himself  from  his  saddle  there  was  no  one  to  greet 
him.  This  was  surprising,  since,  ordinarily,  two  or 


286     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

three  of  Purvy's  personal  guardsmen  loafed  at  the  front 
to  watch  the  road.  Just  now  the  guard  should  logic 
ally  be  doubled.  Samson  still  wore  his  Eastern  clothes 
— for  he  wanted  to  go  through  that  door  unknown. 
As  Samson  South  he  could  not  cross  its  threshold  either 
way.  But  when  he  stepped  up  on  to  the  rough  porch 
flooring  no  one  challenged  his  advance.  The  yard  and 
orchard  were  quiet  from  their  front  fence  to  the  grisly 
stockade  at  the  rear,  and,  wondering  at  these  things, 
the  young  man  stood  for  a  moment  looking  about  at 
the  afternoon  peace  before  he  announced  himself. 

Yet  Samson  had  not  come  to  the  stronghold  of  his 
enemy  for  the  purpose  of  assassination.  There  had 
been  another  object  in  his  mind — an  utterly  mad  idea, 
it  is  true,  yet  so  bold  of  conception  that  it  held  a  ghost 
ef  promise.  He  had  meant  to  go  into  Jesse  Purvy's 
store  and  chat  artlessly,  like  some  inquisitive  "f  urriner." 
He  would  ask  questions  which  by  their  very  imperti 
nence  might  be  forgiven  on  the  score  of  a  stranger's 
folly.  But,  most  of  all,  he  wanted  to  drop  the  casual 
information,  which  he  should  assume  to  have  heard 
on  the  train,  that  Samson  South  was  returning,  and 
to  mark,  on  the  assassin  leader,  the  effect  of  the  news. 
In  his  new  code  it  was  necessary  to  give  at  least  the 
9  rattler's  warning  before  he  struck,  and  he  meant  to 
.strike.  If  he  were  recognized,  well — he  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

But  as  he  stood  on  the  outside,  wiping  the  perspira 
tion  from  his  forehead,  for  the  ride  had  been  warm, 
he  heard  voices  within.  They  were  loud  and  angry 
voices.  It  occurred  to  him  that  by  remaining  where 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     287 

he  was  he  might  gain  more  information  than  by  hur 
rying  in. 

"I've  done  been  your  executioner  fer  twenty  years," 
complained  a  voice,  which  Samson  at  once  recognized 
as  that  of  Aaron  Hollis,  the  most  trusted  of  Purvy's 
personal  guards.  "I  hain't  never  laid  down  on  ye  yet. 
Me  an'  Jim  Asberry  killed  old  Henry  South.  We  laid 
fer  his  boy,  an*  would  'a'  got  him  ef  ye'd  only  said 
ther  word.  I  went  inter  Hixon,  an'  killed  Tam'rack 
Spicer,  with  soldiers  all  round  me.  There  hain't  no 
other  damn  fool  in  these  mountings  would  'a'  took 
such  a  long  chance  es  thet.  I'm  tired  of  hit.  They're 
a-goin'  ter  git  me,  an'  I  wants  ter  leave,  an'  you  won't 
come  clean  with  the  price  of  a  railroad  ticket  to  Okla 
homa.  Now,  damn  yore  stingy  soul,  I  gits  that  ticket 
or  I  gits  you !" 

"Aaron,  ye  can't  scare  me  into  doin'  nothin'  I  ain't 
aimin'  to  do."  The  old  baron  of  the  vendetta  spoke 
in  a  cold,  stoical  voice.  "I  tell  ye  I  ain't  quite  through 
with  ye  yet.  In  due  an'  proper  time  I'll  see  that  ye 
get  yer  ticket."  Then  he  added,  with  conciliating  soft 
ness:  "We've  been  friends  a  long  while.  Let's  talk 
this  thing  over  before  we  fall  out." 

"Thar  hain't  nothin'  ter  talk  over,"  stormed  Aaron. 
"Ye're  jest  tryin'  ter  kill  time  till  the  boys  gits  hyar, 
and  then  I  reckon  ye  'lows  ter  have  me  kilt  like  yer've 
had  me  kill  them  others.  Hit  hain't  no  use.  I've  done 
sent  'em  away.  When  they  gits  back  hyar,  either  you'll 
be  in  hell,  or  I'll  be  on  my  way  outen  the  mountings." 

Samson  stood  rigid.  Here  was  the  confession  of  one 
murderer,  with  no  denial  from  the  other.  The  truce 
was  off.  Why  should  he  wait?  Cataracts  seemed  to 


288     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

thunder  in  his  brain,  and  yet  he  stood  there,  his  hand  in 
his  coat-pocket,  clutching  the  grip  of  a  magazine  pistol. 
Samson  South  the  old,  and  Samson  South  the  new,  were 
writhing  in  the  life-and-death  grapple  of  two  codes. 
Then,  before  decision  came,  he  heard  a  sharp  report 
inside,  and  the  heavy  fall  of  a  body  to  the  floor. 

A  wildly  excited  figure  came  plunging  through  the 
door,  and  Samson's  left  hand  swept  out,  and  seized  its 
shoulder  in  a  sudden  vise  grip. 

"Do  you  know  me?"  he  inquired,  as  the  mountaineer 
pulled  away  and  crouched  back  with  startled  surprise 
and  vicious  frenzy. 

"No,  damn  ye !  Git  outen  my  road !"  Aaron  thrust 
his  cocked  rifle  close  against  the  stranger's  face.  From 
its  muzzle  came  the  acrid  stench  of  freshly  burned 
powder.  "Git  outen  my  road  afore  I  kills  ye !" 

"My  name  is  Samson  South." 

Before  the  astounded  finger  on  the  rifle  trigger  could 
be  crooked,  Samson's  pistol  spoke  from  the  pocket,  and, 
as  though  in  echo,  the  rifle  blazed,  a  little  too  late  and 
a  shade  too  high,  over  his  head,  as  the  dead  man's  arms 
went  up. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

T71  XCEPT  for  those  two  reports  there  was  no  sound. 

HJ  Samson  stood  still,  anticipating  an  uproar  of 
alarm.  Now,  he  should  doubtless  have  to  pay 
with  his  life  for  both  the  deaths  which  would  inevitably 
and  logically  be  attributed  to  his  agency.  But,  strange 
ly  enough,  no  clamor  arose.  The  shot  inside  had  been 
muffled,  and  those  outside,  broken  by  the  intervening 
store,  did  not  arouse  the  house.  Purvy's  bodyguard  had 
been  sent  away  by  Hollis  on  a  false  alarm.  Only  the 
"womenfolks"  and  children  remained  indoors,  and  they 
were  drowning  with  a  piano  any  sounds  that  might  have 
come  from  without.  That  piano  was  the  chief  emblem 
of  Purvy's  wealth.  It  represented  the  acme  of  "having 
things  hung  up" ;  that  ancient  and  expressive  phrase, 
which  had  come  down  from  days  when  the  pioneers' 
worldly  condition  was  gauged  by  the  hams  hanging  in 
the  smokehouse  and  the  peppers,  tobacco  and  herbs 
strung  high  against  the  rafters. 

Now,  Samson  South  stood  looking  down,  uninterrupt 
ed,  on  what  had  been  Aaron  Hollis  as  it  lay  motionless 
at  his  feet.  There  was  a  powder-burned  hole  in  the  but 
ternut  shirt,  and  only  a  slender  thread  of  blood  trickled 
into  the  dirt-grimed  cracks  between  the  planks.  The 
body  was  twisted  sidewise,  in  one  of  those  grotesque  atti 
tudes  with  which  a  sudden  summons  so  frequently  robs 
the  greatest  phenomenon  of  all  its  rightful  dignity.  The 

289 


290     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND^ 

sun  was  gilding  the  roadside  clods,  and  burnishing  the 
greens  of  the  treetops.  The  breeze  was  harping  sleepily 
among  the  branches,  and  several  geese  stalked  pom 
pously  along  the  creek's  edge.  On  the  top  of  the 
stockade  a  gray  squirrel,  sole  witness  to  the  tragedy, 
rose  on  his  haunches,  flirted  his  brush,  and  then,  in  a 
sudden  leap  of  alarm,  disappeared. 

Samson  turned  to  the  darkened  doorway.  Inside  was 
emptiness,  except  for  the  other  body,  which  had 
crumpled  forward  and  face  down  across  the  counter. 
A  glance  showed  that  Jesse  Purvy  would  no  more  fight 
back  the  coming  of  death.  He  was  quite  unarmed. 
Behind  his  spent  body  ranged  shelves  of  general  mer 
chandise.  Boxes  of  sardines  and  cans  of  peaches  were 
lined  in  homely  array  above  him.  His  lifeless  hand 
rested  as  though  flung  out  in  an  oratorical  gesture  on 
a  bolt  of  blue  calico. 

Samson  paused  only  for  a  momentary  survey.  His 
score  was  clean.  He  would  not  again  have  to  agonize 
over  the  dilemma  of  old  ethics  and  new.  To-morrow, 
the  word  would  spread  like  wildfire  along  Misery  and 
Crippleshin,  that  Samson  South  was  back,  and  that  his 
coming  had  been  signalized  by  these  two  deaths.  The 
fact  that  he  was  responsible  for  only  one — and  that  in 
self-defense — would  not  matter.  They  would  prefer  to 
believe  that  he  had  invaded  the  store  and  killed  Purvy, 
and  that  Hollis  had  fallen  in  his  master's  defense  at  the 
threshold.  Samson  went  out,  still  meeting  no  one,  and 
continued  his  journey. 

Dusk  was  falling,  when  he  hitched  his  horse  in  a 
clump  of  timber,  and,  lifting  his  saddlebags,  began 
climbing  to  a  cabin  that  sat  far  back  in  a  thicketed 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     291 

cove.  He  was  now  well  within  South  territory,  and  the 
need  of  masquerade  had  ended. 

The  cabin  had  not,  for  years,  been  occupied.  Its 
rooftree  was  leaning  askew  under  rotting  shingles.  The 
doorstep  was  ivy-covered,  and  the  stones  of  the  hearth 
were  broken.  But  it  lay  well  hidden,  and  would  serve 
his  purposes. 

Shortly,  a  candle  flickered  inside,  before  a  small  hand 
mirror.  Scissors  and  safety  razor  were  for  a  while  busy. 
The  man  who  entered  in  impeccable  clothes  emerged 
fifteen  minutes  later — transformed.  There  appeared 
under  the  rising  June  crescent,  a  smooth-faced  native, 
clad  in  stained  store-clothes,  with  rough  woolen  socks 
showing  at  his  brogan  tops,  and  a  battered  felt  hat 
drawn  over  his  face.  No  one  who  had  known  the  Samson 
South  of  four  years  ago  would  fail  to  recognize  him 
now.  And  the  strangest  part,  he  told  himself,  was  that 
he  felt  the  old  Samson.  He  no  longer  doubted  his 
courage.  He  had  come  home,  and  his  conscience  was 
once  more  clear. 

The  mountain  roads  and  the  mountain  sides  them 
selves  were  sweetly  silent.  Moon  mist  engulfed  the 
flats  in  a  lake  of  dreams,  and,  as  the  livery-stable  horse 
halted  to  pant  at  the  top  of  the  final  ridge,  he  could  see 
below  him  his  destination. 

The  smaller  knobs  rose  like  little  islands  out  of  the 
vapor,  and  yonder,  catching  the  moonlight  like  scraps 
of  gray  paper,  were  two  roofs :  that  of  his  uncle's 
house — and  that  of  the  Widow  Miller. 

At  a  point  where  a  hand-bridge  crossed  the  skirting 
creek,  the  boy  dismounted.  Ahead  of  him  lay  the  stile 
where  he  had  said  good-by  to  Sally.  The  place  was 


292     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

dark,  and  the  chimney  smokeless,  but,  as  he  came  nearer, 
holding  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  he  saw  one  sliver  of 
light  at  the  bottom  of  a  solid  shutter;  the  shutter  of 
Sally's  room.  Yet,  for  a  while,  Samson  stopped  there, 
looking  and  making  no  sound.  He  stood  at  his  Rubi 
con — and  behind  him  lay  all  the  glitter  and  culture  of 
that  other  world,  a  world  that  had  been  good  to  him. 

That  was  to  Samson  South  one  of  those  pregnant 
and  portentous  moments  with  which  life  sometimes 
punctuates  its  turning  points.  At  such  times,  all  the 
set  and  solidified  strata  that  go  into  the  building  of  a 
man's  nature  may  be  uptossed  and  rearranged.  So, 
the  layers  of  a  mountain  chain  and  a  continent  that 
have  for  centuries  remained  steadfast  may  break  and 
alter  under  the  stirring  of  earthquake  or  volcano,  drop 
ping  heights  under  water  and  throwing  new  ranges 
above  the  sea. 

There  was  passing  before  his  eyes  as  he  stood  there, 
pausing,  a  panorama  much  vaster  than  any  he  had  been 
able  to  conceive  when  last  he  stood  there.  He  was  seeing 
in  review  the  old  life  and  the  new,  lurid  with  contrasts, 
and,  as  the  pictures  of  things  thousands  of  miles  away 
rose  before  his  eyes  as  clearly  as  the  serried  backbone 
of  the  ridges,  he  was  comparing  and  settling  for  all 
time  the  actual  values  and  proportions  of  the  things  in 
his  life. 

He  saw  the  streets  of  Paris  and  New  York,  brilliant 
under  their  strings  of  opalescent  lights;  the  Champs 
Elysees  ran  in  its  smooth,  tree-trimmed  parquetry  from 
the  Place  de  Concorde  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and  the 
chatter  and  music  of  its  cafes  rang  in  his  ears.  The 
ivory  spaces  of  Rome,  from  the  Pincian  Hill  where  his 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     293 

fancy  saw  almond  trees  in  bloom  to  the  Piazza  Venezia, 
spread  their  eternal  story  before  his  imagination.  He 
saw  'buses  and  hansoms  slirring  through  the  mud  and 
fog  of  London  and  the  endless  pot-pourri  of  Manhat 
tan.  All  the  things  that  the  outside  world  had  to  offer ; 
all  that  had  ever  stirred  his  pulses  to  a  worship  of  the 
beautiful,  the  harmonious,  the  excellent,  rose  in  exact 
value.  Then,  he  saw  again  the  sunrise  as  it  would  be 
to-morrrow  morning  over  these  ragged  hills.  He  saw 
the  mists  rise  and  grow  wisp-like,  and  the  disc  of  the 
sun  gain  color,  and  all  the  miracles  of  cannoning 
tempest  and  caressing  calm — and,  though  he  had  come 
back  to  fight,  a  wonderful  peace  settled  over  him,  for 
he  knew  that,  if  he  must  choose  these,  his  native  hills, 
or  all  the  rest,  he  would  forego  all  the  rest. 

And  Sally — would  she  be  changed?  His  heart  was 
hammering  wildly  now.  Sally  had  remained  loyal.  It 
was  a  miracle,  but  it  was  the  one  thing  that  counted. 
He  was  going  to  her,  and  nothing  else  mattered.  All 
the  questions  of  dilemma  were  answered.  He  was  Sam 
son  South  come  back  to  his  own — to  Sally,  and  the 
rifle.  Nothing  had  changed!  The  same  trees  raised 
the  same  crests  against  the  same  sky.  For  every  one 
of  them,  he  felt  a  throb  of  deep  emotion.  Best  of  all, 
he  himself  had  not  changed  in  any  cardinal  respect, 
though  he  had  come  through  changes  and  perplexities. 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  sent  out  a  long,  clear  whip- 
poorwill  call,  which  quavered  on  the  night  much  like  the 
other  calls  in  the  black  hills  around  him.  After  a 
moment,  he  went  nearer,  in  the  shadow  of  a  poplar,  and 
repeated  the  call. 

Then,  the  cabin-door  opened.     Its  jamb  framed  a 


294     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

patch  of  yellow  candlelight,  and,  at  the  center,  a  slender 
silhouetted  figure,  in  a  fluttering,  eager  attitude  of 
uncertainty.  The  figure  turned  slightly  to  one  side, 
and,  as  it  did  so,  the  man  saw  clasped  in  her  right  hand 
the  rifle,  which  had  been  his  mission,  bequeathed  to  her 
in  trust.  He  saw,  too,  the  delicate  outline  of  her  pro 
file,  with  anxiously  parted  lips  and  a  red  halo  about 
her  soft  hair.  He  watched  the  eager  heave  of  her 
breast,  and  the  spasmodic  clutching  of  the  gun  to  her 
heart.  For  four  years,  he  had  not  given  that  familiar 
signal.  Possibly,  it  had  lost  some  of  its  characteristic 
quality,  for  she  still  seemed  in  doubt.  She  hesitated, 
and  the  man,  invisible  in  the  shadow,  once  more  imitated 
the  bird-note,  but  this  time  it  was  so  low  and  soft  that 
it  seemed  the  voice  of  a  whispering  whippoorwill. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  glad  little  cry,  she  came  running 
with  her  old  fleet  grace  down  to  the  road. 

Samson  had  vaulted  the  stile,  and  stood  in  the  full 
moonlight.  As  he  saw  her  coming  he  stretched  out  his 
arms  and  his  voice  broke  from  his  throat  in  a  half- 
hoarse,  passionate  cry: 

"Sally!" 

It  was  the  only  word  he  could  have  spoken  just  then, 
but  it  was  all  that  was  necessary.  It  told  her  every 
thing.  It  was  an  outburst  from  a  heart  too  full  of 
emotion  to  grope  after  speech,  the  cry  of  a  man  for  the 
One  Woman  who  alone  can  call  forth  an  inflection  more 
eloquent  than  phrases  and  poetry.  And,  as  she  came 
into  his  outstretched  arms  as  straight  and  direct  as  a 
homing  pigeon,  they  closed  about  her  in  a  convulsive 
grip  that  held  her  straining  to  him,  almost  crushing  her 
in  the  tempest  of  his  emotion. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     295 

For  a  time,  there  was  no  speech,  but  to  each  of  them 
it  seemed  that  their  tumultuous  heart-beating  must 
sound  above  the  night  music,  and  the  telegraphy  of 
heart-beats  tells  enough.  Later,  they  would  talk,  but 
now,  with  a  gloriously  wild  sense  of  being  together, 
with  a  mutual  intoxication  of  joy  because  all  that  they 
had  dreamed  was  true,  and  all  that  they  had  feared 
was  untrue,  they  stood  there  under  the  skies  clasping 
each  other — with  the  rifle  between  their  breasts.  Then 
as  he  held  her  close,  he  wondered  that  a  shadow  of  doubt 
could  ever  have  existed.  He  wondered  if,  except  in 
some  nightmare  of  hallucination,  it  had  ever  existed. 

The  flutter  of  her  heart  was  like  that  of  a  rapturous 
bird,  and  the  play  of  her  breath  on  his  face  like  the 
fragrance  of  the  elder  blossoms. 

These  were  their  stars  twinkling  overhead.  These 
were  their  hills,  and  their  moon  was  smiling  on  their 
tryst. 

He  had  gone  and  seen  the  world  that  lured  him:  he 
had  met  its  difficulties,  and  faced  its  puzzles.  He  had 
even  felt  his  feet  wandering  at  the  last  from  the  path 
that  led  back  to  her,  and  now,  with  her  lithe  figure  close 
held  in  his  embrace,  and  her  red-brown  hair  brushing  his 
temples,  he  marveled  how  such  an  instant  of  doubt  could 
have  existed.  He  knew  only  that  the  silver  of  the  moon 
and  the  kiss  of  the  breeze  and  the  clasp  of  her  soft 
arms  about  his  neck  were  all  parts  of  one  great  miracle. 
And  she,  who  had  waited  and  almost  despaired,  not 
taking  count  of  what  she  had  suffered,  felt  her  knees 
grow  weak,  and  her  head  grow  dizzy  with  sheer  happi 
ness,  and  wondered  if  it  were  not  too  marvelous  to  be 
true.  And,  looking  very  steadfastly  into  his  eyes,  she 


296     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

saw  there  tlie  gleam  that  once  had  frightened  her ;  the 
gleam  that  spoke  of  something  stronger  and  more  com 
pelling  than  his  love.  It  no  longer  frightened  her,  but 
made  her  soul  sing,  though  it  was  more  intense  than 
it  had  ever  been  before,  for  now  she  knew  that  it  was 
She  herself  who  brought  it  to  his  pupils — and  that 
nothing  would  ever  be  stronger. 

But  they  had  much  to  say  to  each  other,  and,  finally, 
Samson  broke  the  silence: 

"Did  ye  think  I  wasn't  a-comin'  back,  Sally?"  he 
questioned,  softly.  At  that  moment,  he  had  no  realiza 
tion  that  his  tongue  had  ever  fashioned  smoother 
phrases.  And  she,  too,  who  had  been  making  war  on 
crude  idioms,  forgot,  as  she  answered: 

"Ye  done  said  ye  was  comin'."  Then,  she  added  a 
happy  lie :  "I  knowed  plumb  shore  ye'd  do  hit." 

After  a  while,  she  drew  away,  and  said,  slowly : 

"Samson,  I've  done  kept  the  old  rifle-gun  ready  fer 
ye.  Ye  said  ye'd  need  it  bad  when  ye  come  back,  an* 
I've  took  care  of  it." 

She  stood  there  holding  it,  and  her  voice  dropped 
almost  to  a  whisper  as  she  added : 

"It's  been  a  lot  of  comfort  to  me  sometimes,  because 
it  was  your'n.  I  knew  if  ye  stopped  keerin'  fer  me,  ye 
wouldn't  let  me  keep  it — an'  as  long  as  I  had  it,  I — " 
She  broke  off,  and  the  fingers  of  one  hand  touched  the 
weapon  caressingly. 

The  man  knew  many  things  now  that  he  had  not 
known  when  he  said  good-by.  He  recognized  in  the  very 
gesture  with  which  she  stroked  the  old  walnut  stock  the 
pathetic  heart-hunger  of  a  nature  which  had  been  denied 
the  fulfillment  of  its  strength,  and  which  had  been 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS    297 

bestowing  on  an  inanimate  object  something  that  might 
almost  have  been  the  stirring  of  the  mother  instinct  for 
a  child.  Now,  thank  God,  her  life  should  never  lack 
anything  that  a  flood-tide  of  love  could  bring  to  it.  He 
bent  his  head  in  a  mute  sort  of  reverence. 

After  a  long  while,  they  found  time  for  the  less- 
wonderful  things. 

"I  got  your  letter,"  he  said,  seriously,  "and  I  came 
at  once."  As  he  began  to  speak  of  concrete  facts,  he 
dropped  again  into  ordinary  English,  and  did  not  know 
that  he  had  changed  his  manner  of  speech. 

For  an  instant,  Sally  looked  up  into  his  face,  then 
with  a  sudden  laugh,  she  informed  him : 

"I  can  say,  'isn't,'  instead  of,  'hain't,'  too.  How  did 
you  like  my  writing?" 

He  held  her  off  at  arms'  length,  and  looked  at  her 
pridefully,  but  under  his  gaze  her  eyes  fell,  and  her 
face  flushed  with  a  sudden  diffidence  and  a  new  shyness 
of  realization.  She  wore  a  calico  dress,  but  at  her  throat 
was  a  soft  little  bow  of  ribbon.  She  was  no  longer  the 
totally  unself-conscious  wood-nymph,  though  as  natural 
and  instinctive  as  in  the  other  days.  Suddenly,  she  drew 
away  from  him  a  little,  and  her  hands  went  slowly  to 
her  breast,  and  rested  there.  She  was  fronting  a  great 
crisis,  but,  in  the  first  flush  of  joy,  she  had  forgotten 
it.  She  had  spent  lonely  nights  struggling  for  rudi 
ments  ;  she  had  sought  and  fought  to  refashion  herself, 
so  that,  if  he  came,  he  need  not  be  ashamed  of  her.  And 
now  he  had  come,  and,  with  a  terrible  clarity  and  dis 
tinctness,  she  realized  how  pitifully  little  she  had  beeri 
able  to  accomplish.  Would  she  pass  muster?  She  stood 


298     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

there  before  him,  frightened,  self-conscious  and  palpi 
tating,  then  her  voice  came  in  a  whisper : 

"Samson,  dear,  I'm  not  holdin'  you  to  any  promise. 
Those  things  we  said  were  a  long  time  back.  Maybe 
we'd  better  forget  'em  now,  and  begin  all  over  again." 

But,  again,  he  crushed  her  in  his  arms,  and  his  voice 
rose  triumphantly : 

"Sally,  I  have  no  promises  to  take  back,  and  you  have 
made  none  that  I'm  ever  going  to  let  you  take  back — 
not  while  life  lasts !" 

Her  laugh  was  the  delicious  music  of  happiness. 

"I  don't  want  to  take  them  back,"  she  said.  Then, 
suddenly,  she  added,  importantly:  "I  wear  shoes  and 
stockings  now,  and  I'v?  been  to  school  a  little.  I'm 
awfully — awfully  ignorant,  Samson,  but  I've  started, 
and  I  reckon  you  can  teaclh  me." 

His  voice  choked.  Then,  her  hands  strayed  up,  and 
clasped  themselves  about  his  head. 

"Oh,  Samson,"  she  cried,  as  though  someone  had 
struck  her,  "you've  cut  yore  ha'r." 

"It  will  grow  again,"  he  laughed.  But  he  wished  that 
he  had  not  had  to  make  that  excuse.  Then,  being 
honest,  he  told  her  all  about  Adrienne  Lescott — even 
about  how,  after  he  believed  that  he  had  been  outcast 
by  his  uncle  and  herself,  he  had  had  his  moments  of 
doubt.  Now  that  it  was  all  so  clear,  now  that  there 
could  never  be  doubt,  he  wanted  the  woman  who  had 
been  so  true  a  friend  to  know  the  girl  whom  he  loved. 
He  loved  them  both,  but  was  in  love  with  only  one.  He 
wanted  to  present  to  Sally  the  friend  who  had  made 
him,  and  to  the  friend  who  had  made  him  the  Sally  of 
whom  he  was  proud.  He  wanted  to  tell  Adrienne  that 


now  he  could  answer  her  question — that  each  of  them 
meant  to  the  other  exactly  the  same  thing:  they  were 
friends  of  the  rarer  sort,  who  had  for  a  little  time  been 
in  danger  of  mistaking  their  comradeship  for  passion. 

As  they  talked,  sitting  on  the  stile,  Sally  held  the 
rifle  across  her  knees.  Except  for  their  own  voices  and 
the  soft  chorus  of  night  sounds,  the  hills  were  wrapped 
in  silence — a  silence  as  soft  as  velvet.  Suddenly,  in  a 
pause,  there  came  to  the  girl's  ears  the  cracking  of  a 
twig  in  the  woods.  With  the  old  instinctive  training 
of  the  mountains,  she  leaped  noiselessly  down,  and  for 
an  instant  stood  listening  with  intent  ears.  Then,  in  a 
low,  tense  whisper,  as  she  thrust  the  gun  into  the  man's 
hands,  she  cautioned: 

"Git  out  of  sight.  Maybe  they've  done  found  out 
ye've  come  back — maybe  they're  trailin'  ye !" 

With  an  instant  shock,  she  remembered  what  mission 
had  brought  him  back,  and  what  was  his  peril ;  and  he, 
too,  for  whom  the  happiness  of  the  moment  had  swal 
lowed  up  other  things,  came  back  to  a  recognition  of 
facts.  Dropping  into  the  old  woodcraft,  he  melted  out 
of  sight  into  the  shadow,  thrusting  the  girl  behind  him, 
and  crouched  against  the  fence,  throwing  the  rifle  for 
ward,  and  peering  into  the  shadows.  As  he  stood  there, 
balancing  the  gun  once  more  in  his  hands,  old  instincts 
began  to  stir,  old  battle  hunger  to  rise,  and  old  realiza 
tions  of  primitive  things  to  assault  him.  Then,  when 
they  had  waited  with  bated  breath  until  they  were  both 
reassured,  he  rose  and  swung  the  stock  to  his  shoulder 
several  times.  With  something  like  a  sigh  of  content 
ment,  he  said,  half  to  himself: 


300     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"Hit  feels  mighty  natural  ter  throw  this  old  rifle- 
gun  up.  I  reckon  maybe  I  kin  still  shoot  hit." 

"I  learned  some  things  down  there  at  school,  Samson," 
said  the  girl,  slowly,  "and  I  wish — I  wish  you  didn't 
have  to  use  it." 

"Jim  Asberry  is  dead,"  said  the  man,  gravely. 

"Yes,"  she  echoed,  "Jim  Asberry's  dead."  She 
stopped  there.  Yet,  her  sigh  completed  the  sentence  as 
though  she  had  added,  "but  he  was  only  one  of  several. 
Your  vow  went  farther." 

After  a  moment's  pause,  Samson  added : 

"Jesse  Purvy's  dead." 

The  girl  drew  back,  with  a  frightened  gasp.  She 
knew  what  this  meant,  or  thought  she  did. 

"Jesse  Purvy!"  she  repeated.  "Oh,  Samson,  did 
ye — ?"  She  broke  off,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"No,  Sally,"  he  told  her.  "I  didn't  have  to."  He 
recited  the  day's  occurrences,  and  they  sat  together  on 

the  stile,  until  the  moon  had  sunk  to  the  ridge  top. 
****** 

Captain  Sidney  Callomb,  who  had  been  despatched 
in  command  of  a  militia  company  to  quell  the  trouble  in 
the  mountains,  should  have  been  a  soldier  by  profession. 
All  his  enthusiasms  were  martial.  His  precision  was 
military.  His  cool  eye  held  a  note  of  command  which 
made  itself  obeyed.  He  had  a  rare  gift  of  handling 
men,  which  made  them  ready  to  execute  the  impossible. 
But  the  elder  Callomb  had  trained  his  son  to  succeed 
him  at  the  head  of  a  railroad  system,  and  the  young 
man  had  philosophically  undertaken  to  satisfy  his  mili 
tary  ambitions  with  State  Guard  shoulder-straps. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     301 

The  deepest  sorrow  and  mortification  he  had  ever 
known  was  that  which  came  to  him  when  Tamarack 
Spicer,  his  prisoner  of  war  and  a  man  who  had  been 
surrendered  on  the  strength  of  his  personal  guarantee, 
had  been  assassinated  before  his  eyes.  That  the  manner 
of  this  killing  had  been  so  outrageously  treacherous  that 
it  could  hardly  have  been  guarded  against,  failed  to  • 
bring  him  solace.  It  had  shown  the  inefficiency  of  his 
efforts,  and  had  brought  on  a  carnival  of  blood-letting, 
when  he  had  come  here  to  safeguard  against  that  danger. 
In  some  fashion,  he  must  make  amends.  He  realized, 
too,  and  it  rankled  deeply,  that  his  men  were  not  being 
genuinely  used  to  serve  the  State,  but  as  instruments  of 
the  Hollmans,  and  he  had  seen  enough  to  distrust  the 
Hollmans.  Here,  in  Hixon,  he  was  seeing  things  from 
only  one  angle.  He  meant  to  learn  something  more 
impartial. 

Besides  being  on  duty  as  an  officer  of  militia,  Callomb 
was  a  Kentuckian,  interested  in  the  problems  of  his 
Commonwealth,  and,  when  he  went  back,  he  knew  that 
his  cousin,  who  occupied  the  executive  mansion  at  Frank 
fort,  would  be  interested  in  his  suggestions.  The  Gov 
ernor  had  asked  him  to  report  his  impressions,  and  he 
meant  to  form  them  after  analysis. 

So,  smarting  under  his  impotency,  Captain  Callomb 
came  out  of  his  tent  one  morning,  and  strolled  across 
the  curved  bridge  to  the  town  proper.  He  knew  that 
the  Grand  Jury  was  convening,  and  he  meant  to  sit  as 
a  spectator  in  the  court-house  and  studv  proceedings 
when  they  were  instructed. 

But  before  he  reached  the  court-house,  where  for  a 
half -hour  yet  the  cupola  bell  would  not  clang  out  its 


302     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

summons  to  veniremen  and  witnesses,  he  found  fresh 
fuel  for  his  wrath. 

He  was  not  a  popular  man  with  these  clansmen, 
though  involuntarily  he  had  been  useful  in  leading  their 
victims  to  the  slaughter.  There  was  a  scowl  in  his  eyes 
that  they  did  not  like,  and  an  arrogant  hint  of 
iron  laws  in  the  livery  he  wore,  which  their  instincts 
distrusted. 

Callomb  saw  without  being  told  that  over  the  town 
lay  a  sense  of  portentous  tidings.  Faces  were  more 
sullen  than  usual.  Men  fell  into  scowling  knots  and 
groups.  A  clerk  at  a  store  where  he  stopped  for  tobacco 
inquired  as  he  made  change: 

"Heered  the  news,  stranger?" 

"What  news?" 

"This  here  'Wildcat'  Samson  South  come  back  yis- 
tiddy,  an'  last  evenin'  towards  sundown,  Jesse  Purvy 
an'  Aaron  Hollis  was  shot  dead." 

For  an  instant,  the  soldier  stood  looking  at  the  young 
clerk,  his  eyes  kindling  into  a  wrathful  blaze.  Then, 
he  cursed  under  his  breath.  At  the  door,  he  turned  on 
his  heel: 

"Where  can  Judge  Smithers  be  found  at  this  time  of 
day?"  he  demanded. 


CHAPTER  XXVH 

THE  Honorable  Asa  Smithers  was  not  the  regular 
Judge  of  the   Circuit  which  numbered  Hixon 
among  its  county-seats.     The  elected  incumbent 
was  ill,  and  Smithers  had  been  named  as  his  pro-tern, 
successor.     Callomb  climbed  to  the  second  story  of  the 
frame  bank  building,  and  pounded  loudly  on  a  door, 
which  bore  the  boldly  typed  shingle : 

"AsA  SMITHERS,  ATTORNEY-AT-LAW." 

The  temporary  Judge  admitted  a  visitor  in  uniform, 
whose  countenance  was  stormy  with  indignant  protest. 
The  Judge  himself  was  placid  and  smiling.  The  lawyer, 
who  was  for  the  time  being  exalted  to  the  bench,  hoped 
to  ascend  it  more  permanently  by  the  votes  of  the  Holl- 
man  faction,  since  only  Hollman  votes  were  counted.  He 
was  a  young  man  of  powerful  physique  with  a  face 
ruggedly  strong  and  honest. 

It  was  such  an  honest  and  fearless  face  that  it  was 
extremely  valuable  to  its  owner  in  concealing  a  crooked 
ness  as  resourceful  as  that  of  a  fox,  and  a  moral 
cowardice  which  made  him  a  spineless  tool  in  evil  hands. 
A  shock  of  tumbled  red  hair  over  a  fighting  face  added 
to  the  appearance  of  combative  strength.  The  Honor 
able  Asa  was  conventionally  dressed,  and  his  linen  was 
white,  but  his  collar  was  innocent  of  a  necktie.  Callomb 

303 


304     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

stood  for  a  moment  inside  the  door,  and,  when  he  spoke* 
it  was  to  demand  crisply: 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"About  what,  Captain?"  inquired  the  other,  mildly. 

"Is  it  possible  you  haven't  heard?  Since  yesterday 
noon,  two  more  murders  have  been  added  to  the  holo 
caust.  You  represent  the  courts  of  law.  I  represent 
the  military  arm  of  the  State.  Are  we  going  to  stand 
by  and  see  this  go  on?" 

The  Judge  shook  his  head,  and  his  visage  was  sternly 
thoughtful  and  hypocritical.  He  did  not  mention  that 
he  had  just  come  from  conference  with  the  Hollman 
leaders.  He  did  not  explain  that  the  venire  he  had 
drawn  from  the  jury  drum  had  borne  a  singularly  solid 
Hollman  compl action. 

"Until  the  Grand  Jury  acts,  I  don't  see  that  we  can 
take  any  steps." 

"And,"  stormed  Captain  Callomb,  "the  Grand  Jury 
will,  like  former  Grand  Juries,  lie  down  in  terror  and 
inactivity.  Either  there  are  no  courageous  men  in  your 
county,  or  these  panels  are  selected  to  avoid  including 
them." 

Judge  Smithers'  face  darkened.  If  he  was  a  moral 
coward,  he  was  at  least  a  coward  crouching  behind  a 
seeming  of  fearlessness. 

"Captain,"  he  said,  coolly,  but  with  a  dangerous  hint 
of  warning,  "I  don't  see  that  your  duties  include  con 
tempt  of  court." 

"No !"  Callomb  was  now  thoroughly  angered,  and  his 
voice  rose.  "I  am  sent  down  here  subject  to  your  orders, 
and  it  seems  you  are  also  subject  to  orders.  Here  art 
two  murders  in  a  day,  capping  a  climax  of  twenty  years 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS    305 

of  bloodshed.  You  have  information  as  to  the  arrival 
of  a  man  known  as  a  desperado  with  a  grudge  against 
the  two  dead  men,  yet  you  know  of  no  steps  to  take. 
Give  me  the  word,  and  I'll  go  out  and  bring  that  man, 
and  any  others  you  name,  to  your  bar  of  justice — if 
it  is  a  bar  of  justice!  For  God's  sake,  give  me  some 
thing  else  to  do  than  to  bring  in  prisoners  to  be  shot 
down  in  cold  blood." 

The  Judge  sat  balancing  a  pencil  on  his  extended 
forefinger  as  though  it  were  a  scale  of  justice. 

"You  have  been  heated  in  your  language,  sir,"  he 
said,  sternly,  "but  it  is  a  heat  arising  from  an  indigna 
tion  which  I  share.  Consequently,  I  pass  it  over.  I 
cannot  instruct  you  to  arrest  Samson  South  before  the 
Grand  Jury  has  accused  him.  The  law  does  not  con 
template  hasty  or  unadvised  action.  All  men  are  inno 
cent  until  proven  guilty.  If  the  Grand  Jury  wants 
South,  I'll  instruct  you  to  go  and  get  him.  Until  then, 
you  may  leave  my  part  of  the  work  to  me." 

His  Honor  rose  from  his  chair. 

"You  can  at  least  give  this  Grand  Jury  such  instruc 
tions  on  murder  as  will  point  out  their  duty.  You  can 
assure  them  that  the  militia  will  protect  them.  Through 
your  prosecutor,  you  can  bring  evidence  to  their  at 
tention,  you " 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,"  interrupted  His  Honor,1 
drily,  "I'll  judge  of  how  I  am  to  charge  my  Grand 
Jury.    I  have  been  in  communication  with  the  family  of 
Mr.  Purvy,  and  it  is  not  their  wish  at  the  present  time 
to  bring  this  case  before  the  panel." 

Callomb  laughed  ironically.  » 

"No,  I  could  have  told  you  that  before  you  conferred 


306     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

with  them.  I  could  have  told  you  that  they  prefer  to  be 
their  own  courts  and  executioners,  except  where  they 
need  you.  They  also  preferred  to  have  me  get  a  man 
they  couldn't  take  themselves,  and  then  to  assassinate 
him  in  my  hands.  Who  in  the  hell  do  you  work  for, 
Judge-for-the-moment  Smithers?  Are  you  holding  a 
job  under  the  State  of  Kentucky,  or  under  the  Hollman 
faction  of  this  feud?  I  am  instructed  to  take  my  orders 
from  you.  Will  you  kindly  tell  me  my  master's  real 
name?" 

Smithers  turned  pale  with  anger,  his  fighting  face 
grew  as  truculent  as  a  bulldog's,  while  Callomb  stood 
glaring  back  at  him  like  a  second  bulldog,  but  the 
Judge  knew  that  he  was  being  honestly  and  fearlessly 
accused.  He  merely  pointed  to  the  door.  The  Captain 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  stalked  out  of  the  place,  and  the 
Judge  came  down  the  steps,  and  crossed  the  street  to 
the  court-house.  Five  minutes  later,  he  turned  to  the 
shirt-sleeved  man  who  was  leaning  on  the  bench,  and 
said  in  his  most  judicial  voice: 

"Mr.  Sheriff,  open  court." 

The  next  day  the  mail-carrier  brought  in  a  note  for 
the  temporary  Judge*  His  Honor  read  it  at  recess, 
and  hastened  across  to  Hollman's  Mammoth  Depart 
ment  Store.  There,  in  council  with  his  masters,  he  asked 
instructions.  This  was  the  note: 

"THE  HON.  ASA  SMITHEB.S. 

"Sia:  I  arrived  in  this  county  yesterday,  and  am 
prepared,  if  called  as  a  witness,  to  give  to  the  Grand 
Jury  full  and  true  particulars  of  the  murder  of  Jesse 
Purvy  and  the  killing  of  Aaron  Hollis.  I  am  willing  to 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     307 

come  under  escort  of  my  own  kinsmen,  or  of  the  militia 
men,  as  the  Court  may  advise. 

"The  requirement  of  any  bodyguard,  I  deplore,  but 
in  meeting  my  legal  obligations,  I  do  not  regard  it  as 
necessary  or  proper  to  walk  into  a  trap. 

"Respectfully,  SAMSON  SOUTH." 

Smithers  looked  perplexedly  at  Judge  Hollman. 

"Shall  I  have  him  come  ?"  he  inquired. 

Hollman  threw  the  letter  down  on  his  desk  with  a 
burst  of  blasphemy: 

"Have  him  come?"  he  echoed.  "Hell  and  damnation, 
no !  What  do  we  want  him  to  come  here  and  spill  the 
milk  for?  When  we  get  ready,  we'll  indict  him.  Then, 
let  your  damned  soldiers  go  after  him — as  a  criminal, 
not  a  witness.  After  that,  we'll  continue  this  case  until 
these  outsiders  go  away,  and  we  can  operate  to  suit 
ourselves.  We  don't  fall  for  Samson  South's  tricks. 
No,  sir ;  you  never  got  that  letter !  It  miscarried.  Do 
you  hear?  You  never  got  it." 

Smithers  nodded  grudging  acquiescence.  Most  men 
would  rather  be  independent  officials  than  collar-wearers. 

Out  on  Misery  Samson  South  had  gladdened  the  soul 
of  his  uncle  with  his  return.  The  old  man  was  mending, 
and,  for  a  long  time,  the  two  had  talked.  The  failing 
head  of  the  clan  looked  vainly  for  signs  of  degeneration 
in  his  nephew,  and,  failing  to  find  them,  was  happy. 

"Hev  ye  decided,  Samson,*'  he  inquired,  "thet  ye  was 
right  in  yer  notion  'bout  goin'  away?" 

Samson  sat  reflectively  for  a  while,  then  replied : 

"We  were  both  right,  Uncle  Spicer — and  both  wrong. 
This  is  my  place,  but  if  I'm  to  take  up  the  leadership 


308     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

it  must  be  in  a  different  fashion.     Changes  are  coming. 
We  can't  any  longer  stand  still." 

Spicer  South  lighted  his  pipe.  He,  too,  in  these  last 
years,  had  seen  in  the  distance  the  crest  of  the  oncoming 
wave.  He,  too,  recognized  that,  from  within  or  with 
out,  there  must  be  a  regeneration.  He  did  not  welcome 
it,  but,  if  it  must  come,  he  preferred  that  it  come  not 
at  the  hands  of  conquerors,  but  under  the  leadership 
of  his  own  blood. 

"I  reckon  there's  right  smart  truth  to  that,"  he 
acknowledged.  "I've  been  studyin'  'bout  hit  consid'able 
myself  of  late.  Thar's  been  sev'ral  fellers  through  the 
country  talkin'  coal  an'  timber  an'  railroads — an'  sich 
like." 

Sally  went  to  mill  that  Saturday,  and  with  her  rode 
Samson.  There,  besides  Wile  McCager,  he  met  Caleb 
Wiley  and  several  others.  At  first,  they  received  him 
sceptically,  but  they  knew  of  the  visit  to  Purvy's  store, 
and  they  were  willing  to  admit  that  in  part  at  least  he 
had  erased  the  blot  from  his  escutcheon.  Then,  too, 
except  for  cropped  hair  and  a  white  skin,  he  had  come 
back  as  he  had  gone,  in  homespun  and  hickory.  There 
was  nothing  highfalutin  in  his  manners.  In  short,  the 
impression  was  good. 

"I  reckon  now  that  ye're  back,  Samson,"  suggested 
McCager,  "an'  seein'  how  yore  Uncle  Spicer  is  gettin' 
along  all  right,  I'll  jest  let  the  two  of  ye  run  things. 
I've  done  had  enough."  It  was  a  simple  fashion  of  re 
signing  a  regency,  but  effectual. 

Old  Caleb,  however,  still  insurgent  and  unconvinced, 
brought  in  a  minority  report. 

"We  wants  fightin'  men,"  he  grumbled,  with  th^  senile 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     309 

reiteration  of  his  age,  as  he  spat  tobacco  and  beat  a 
rat-tat  on  the  mill  floor  with  his  long  hickory  staff. 
"We  don't  want  no  deserters." 

"Samson  ain't  a  deserter,"  defended  Sally.  "There 
isn't  one  of  you  fit  to  tie  his  shoes."  Sally  and  old 
Spicer  South  alone  knew  of  her  lover's  letter  to  the 
Circuit  Judge,  and  they  were  pledged  to  secrecy. 

"Never  mind,  Sally!"  It  was  Samson  himself  who 
answered  her.  "I  didn't  come  back  because  I  care  what 
men  like  old  Caleb  think.  I  came  back  because  they 
needed  me.  The  proof  of  a  fighting  man  is  his  fighting, 
I  reckon.  I'm  willing  to  let  'em  judge  me  by  what  I'm 
going  to  do." 

So,  Samson  slipped  back,  tentatively,  at  least,  into 
his  place  as  clan  head,  though  for  a  time  he  found  it 
a  post  without  action.  After  the  fierce  outburst  of 
bloodshed,  quiet  had  settled,  and  it  was  tacitly  under 
stood  that,  unless  the  Hollman  forces  had  some  coup 
in  mind  which  they  were  secreting,  this  peace  would  last 
until  the  soldiers  were  withdrawn. 

"When  the  world's  a-lookin',"  commented  Judge  Holl 
man,  "hit's  a  right  good  idea  to  crawl  under  a  log — an* 
lay  still." 

Purvy  had  been  too  famous  a  feudist  to  pass  unsung. 
Reporters  came  as  far  as  Hixon,  gathered  there  such 
news  as  the  Hollmans  chose  to  give  them,  and  went  back 
to  write  lurid  stories  and  description,  from  hearsay,  of 
the  stockaded  seat  of  tragedy.  Nor  did  they  overlook 
the  dramatic  coincidence  of  the  return  of  "Wildcat" 
Samson  South  from  civilization  to  savagery.  They  made 
no  accusation,  but  they  pointed  an  inference  and  a  moral 
— as  they  thought.  It  was  a  sermon  on  the  triumph  of 


310     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

heredity  over  the  advantages  of  environment.    Adrienne 
read  some  of  these  saffron  misrepresentations,  and  they 

distressed  her. 

**#*## 

Meanwhile,  it  came  insistently  to  the  ears  of  Captain 
Callomb  that  some  plan  was  on  foot,  the  intricacies  of 
which  he  could  not  fathom,  to  manufacture  a  case 
against  a  number  of  the  Souths,  quite  apart  from  their 
actual  guilt,  or  likelihood  of  guilt.  Once  more,  he  would 
be  called  upon  to  go  out  and  drag  in  men  too  well 
fortified  to  be  taken  by  the  posses  and  deputies  of  the 
Hollman  civil  machinery.  At  this  news,  he  chafed  bit 
terly,  and,  still  rankling  with  a  sense  of  shame  at  the 
loss  of  his  first  prisoner,  he  formed  a  plan  of  his  own, 
which  he  revealed  over  his  pipe  to  his  First  Lieutenant. 

"There's  a  nigger  in  the  woodpile,  Merriwether,"  he 
said.  "We  are  simply  being  used  to  do  the  dirty  work 
up  here,  and  I'm  going  to  do  a  little  probing  of  my 
own.  I  guess  I'll  turn  the  company  over  to  you  for  a 
day  or  two." 

"What  idiocy  are  you  contemplating  now?"  inquired 
the  second  in  command. 

"I'm  going  to  ride  over  on  Misery,  and  hear  what 
the  other  side  has  to  say.  I've  usually  noticed  that 
one  side  of  any  story  is  pretty  good  until  the  other's 
told." 

"You  mean  you  are  going  to  go  over  there  where  the 
Souths  are  intrenched,  where  every  road  is  guarded?" 
The  Lieutenant  spoke  wrathfully  and  with  violence. 
"Don't  be  an  ass,  Callomb.  You  went  over  there  once 
before,  and  took  a  man  away — and  he's  dead.  You 
owe  them  a  life,  and  they  collect  their  dues.  You  will  be 


supported  by  no  warrant  of  arrest,  and  can't  take  a 
sufficient  detail  to  protect  you." 

"No,"  said  Callomb,  quietly;  "I  go  on  my  own  re 
sponsibility  and  I  go  by  myself." 

"And,"  stormed  Merriwether,  "you'll  never  come 
back." 

"I  think,"  smiled  Callomb,  "I'll  get  back.  I  owe  an 
old  man  over  there  an  apology,  and  I  want  to  see  this 
desperado  at  first  hand." 

"It's  sheer  madness.  I  ought  to  take  you  down  to  this 
infernal  crook  of  a  Judge,  and  have  you  committed  to 
a  strait-jacket." 

"If,"  said  Callomb,  "you  are  content  to  play  the  cats- 
paw  to  a  bunch  of  assassins,  I'm  not.  The  mail-rider 
went  out  this  morning,  and  he  carried  a  letter  to  old 
Spicer  South.  I  told  him  that  I  was  coming  unescorted 
and  unarmed,  and  that  my  object  was  to  talk  with  him. 
I  asked  him  to  give  me  a  safe-conduct,  at  least  until  I 
reached  his  house,  and  stated  my  case.  I  treated  him 
like  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  and,  unless  I'm  a 
poor  judge  of  men,  he's  going  to  treat  me  that  way." 

The  Lieutenant  sought  vainly  to  dissuade  Callomb, 
but  the  next  day  the  Captain  rode  forth,  unaccompanied. 
Curious  stares  followed  him,  and  Judge  Smithers  turned 
narrowing  and  unpleasant  eyes  after  him,  but  at  the 
"  point  where  the  ridge  separated  the  territory  of  the 
Hollmans  from  that  of  the  Souths,  he  saw  waiting  in 
the  road  a  mounted  figure,  sitting  his  horse  straight, 
and  clad  in  the  rough  habiliments  of  the  mountaineer. 

As  Callomb  rode  up  he  saluted,  and  the  mounted 
figure  with  perfect  gravity  and  correctness  returned 
that  salute  as  one  officer  to  another.  The  Captain  was 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

surprised.  Where  had  this  mountaineer  with  the  steady 
eyes  and  the  clean-cut  jaw  learned  the  niceties  of  mili 
tary  etiquette? 

"I  am  Captain  Callomb  of  F  Company,"  said  the 
officer.  "I'm  riding  over  to  Spicer  South's  house.  Did 
you  come  to  meet  me?" 

"To  meet  and  guide  you,"  replied  a  pleasant  voice. 
"My  name  is  Samson  South." 

The  militiaman  stared.  This  man  whose  countenance 
was  calmly  thoughtful  scarcely  comported  with  the 
descriptions  he  had  heard  of  the  "Wildcat  of  the  Moun 
tains"  ;  the  man  who  had  come  home  straight  as  a  storm- 
petrel  at  the  first  note  of  tempest,  and  marked  his 
coming  with  double  murder.  Callomb  had  been  too  busy 
to  read  newspapers  of  late.  He  had  heard  only  that 
Samson  had  "been  away." 

While  he  wondered,  Samson  went  on : 

"I'm  glad  you  came.  If  it  had  been  possible  I  would 
have  come  to  you."  As  he  told  of  the  letter  he  had 
written  the  Judge,  volunteering  to  present  himself  as  a 
witness,  the  officer's  wonder  grew. 

"They  said  that  you  had  been  away,"  suggested  Cal 
lomb.  "If  it's  not  an  impertinent  question,  what  part 
of  the  mountains  have  you  been  visiting?" 

Samson  laughed. 

"Not  any  part  of  the  mountains,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  living  chiefly  in  New  York — and  for  a  time  in 
Paris." 

Callomb  drew  his  horse  to  a  dead  halt. 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  he  incredulously  asked,  "what 
manner  of  man  are  you?" 

"I  hope,"  came  the  instant  reply,  "it  may  be  summed 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     313 

up  by  saying  that  I'm  exactly  the  opposite  of  the  man 
you've  had  described  for  you  back  there  at  Hixon." 

"I  knew  it,"  exclaimed  the  soldier,  "I  knew  that  I  was 
being  fed  on  lies!  That's  why  I  came.  I  wanted  to 
get  the  straight  of  it,  and  I  felt  that  the  solution  lay 
over  here." 

They  rode  the  rest  of  the  way  in  deep  conversation. 
Samson  outlined  his  ambitions  for  his  people.  He  told, 
too,  of  the  scene  that  had  been  enacted  at  Purvy's  store. 
Callomb  listened  with  absorption,  feeling  that  the  nar 
rative  bore  axiomatic  truth  on  its  face. 

At  last  he  inquired : 

"Did  you  succeed  up  there — as  a  painter?" 

"That's  a  long  road,"  Samson  told  him,  "but  I  think 
I  had  a  fair  start.  I  was  getting  commissions  when 
I  left." 

"Then,  I  am  to  understand" — the  officer  met  the 
steady  gray  eyes  and  put  the  question  like  a  cross- 
examiner  bullying  a  witness — "I  am  to  understand  that 
you  deliberately  put  behind  you  a  career  to  come  down 
here  and  herd  these  fence-jumping  sheep?" 

"Hardly  that,"  deprecated  the  head  of  the  Souths. 
"They  sent  for  me — that's  all.  Of  course,  I  had  to 
come." 

"Why?" 

"Because  they  had  sent.    They  are  my  people." 

The  officer  leaned  in  his  saddle. 

"South,"  he  said,  "would  you  mind  shaking  hands 
with  me?  Some  day,  I  want  to  brag  about  it  to  my 
grandchildren." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CALLOMB  spent  the  night  at  the  house  of  Spicer 
South.  He  met  and  talked  with  a  number  of  the 
kinsmen,  and,  if  he  read  in  the  eyes  of  some  of 
them  a  smoldering  and  unforgiving  remembrance  of  his 
unkept  pledge,  at  least  they  repressed  all  expression  of 
censure. 

With  Spicer  South  and  Samson,  the  Captain  talked 
long  into  the  night.  He  made  many  jottings  in  a  note 
book.  He,  with  Samson  abetting  him,  pointed  out  to 
the  older  and  more  stubborn  man  the  necessity  of  a  new 
regime  in  the  mountains,  under  which  the  individual 
could  walk  in  greater  personal  safety.  As  for  the 
younger  South,  the  officer  felt,  when  he  rode  away  the 
next  morning,  that  he  had  discovered  the  one  man  who 
combined  with  the  courage  and  honesty  that  many  of  his 
clansmen  shared  the  mental  equipment  and  local  influ 
ence  to  prove  a  constructive  leader. 

When  he  returned  to  the  Bluegrass,  he  meant  to  have 
a  long  and  unofficial  talk  with  his  relative,  the  Governor. 

He  rode  back  to  the  ridge  with  a  strong  bodyguard. 
Upon  this  Samson  had  insisted.  He  had  learned  of 
Callomb's  hasty  and  unwise  denunciation  of  Smithers, 
and  he  knew  that  Smithers  had  lost  no  time  in  relating 
it  to  his  masters.  Callomb  would  be  safe  enough  in 
Hollman  country,  because  the  faction  which  had  called 
for  troops  could  not  afford  to  let  him  be  killed  within 

314 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     315 

their  own  precincts.  But,  if  Callomb  could  be  shot  down 
in  his  uniform,  under  circumstances  which  seemed  to 
bear  the  earmarks  of  South  authorship,  it  would  arouse 
in  the  State  at  large  a  tidal  wave  of  resentment  against 
the  Souths,  which  they  could  never  hope  to  stem.  And 
so,  lest  one  of  Hollman's  hired  assassins  should  suc 
ceed  in  slipping  across  the  ridge  and  waylaying  him, 
Samson  conducted  him  to  the  frontier  of  the  ridge. 

On  reaching  Hixon,  Callomb  apologized  to  Judge 
Smithers  for  his  recent  outburst  of  temper.  Now  that 
he  understood  the  hand  that  gentleman  was  playing,  he 
wished  to  be  strategic  and  in  a  position  of  seeming 
accord.  He  must  match  craft  against  craft.  He  did 
not  intimate  that  he  knew  of  Samson's  letter,  and  rather 
encouraged  the  idea  that  he  had  been  received  on  Misery 
with  surly  and  grudging  hospitality. 

Smithers,  presuming  that  the  Souths  still  burned  with 
anger  over  the  shooting  of  Tamarack,  swallowed  that 
bait,  and  was  beguiled. 

The  Grand  Jury  trooped  each  day  to  the  court-house 
and  transacted  its  business.  The  petty  juries  went  and 
came,  occupied  with  several  minor  homicide  cases.  The 
Captain,  from  a  chair,  which  Judge  Smithers  had  or 
dered  placed  beside  him  on  the  bench,  was  looking  on  and 
intently  studying.  One  morning,  Smithers  confided  to 
him  that  in  a  day  or  two  more  the  Grand  Jury  would 
bring  in  a  true  bill  against  Samson  South,  charging 
him  with  murder.  The  officer  did  not  show  surprise. 
He  merely  nodded. 

"I  suppose  I'll  be  called  on  to  go  and  get  him?" 
"I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  ask  you  to  do  that." 
"What  caused  the  change  of  heart?  I  thought 


Purvy's  people  didn't  want  it  done."  It  was  Callomb's 
first  allusion,  except  for  his  apology,  to  their  former 
altercation. 

For  an  instant  only,  Smithers  was  a  little  confused. 

"To  be  quite  frank  with  you,  Callomb,"  he  said,  "I 
got  to  thinking  over  the  matter  in  the  light  of  your 
own  viewpoint,  and,  after  due  deliberation,  I  came  to 
see  that  to  the  State  at  large  it  might  bear  the  same 
appearance.  So,  I  had  the  Grand  Jury  take  the  matter 
up.  We  must  stamp  out  such  lawlessness  as  Samson 
South  stands  for.  He  is  the  more  dangerous  because 
he  has  brains." 

Callomb  nodded,  but,  at  noon,  he  slipped  out  on  a 
pretense  of  sight-seeing,  and  rode  by  a  somewhat  cir 
cuitous  route  to  the  ridge.  At  nightfall,  he  came  to 
the  house  of  the  clan  head. 

"South,"  he  said  to  Samson,  when  he  had  led  him 
aside,  "they  didn't  want  to  hear  what  you  had  to  tell 
the  Grand  Jury,  but  they  are  going  ahead  to  indict  you 
on  manufactured  evidence." 

Samson  was  for  a  moment  thoughtful,  then  he  nodded. 

"That's  about  what  I  was  expecting." 

"Now,"  went  on  Callomb,  "we  understand  each  other. 
We  are  working  for  the  same  end,  and,  by  God!  I've 
had  one  experience  in  making  arrests  at  the  order  of 
that  Court.  I  don't  want  it  to  happen  again." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Samson,  "you  know  that  while  I 
am  entirely  willing  to  face  any  fair  court  of  justice, 
I  don't  propose  to  walk  into  a  packed  jury,  whose  only 
object  is  to  get  me  where  I  can  be  made  way  with. 
Callomb,  I  hope  we  won't  have  to  fight  each  other. 
iWhat  do  you  suggest?" 


*'If  the  Court  orders  the  militia  to  make  an  arrest^ 
the  militia  has  no  option.  In  the  long  run,  resistance 
would  only  alienate  the  sympathy  of  the  world  at  large. 
There  is  just  one  thing  to  be  done,  South.  It's  a  thing 
I  don't  like  to  suggest,  and  a  thing  which,  if  we  were 
not  fighting  the  devil  with  fire,  it  would  be  traitorous  for 
me  to  suggest."  He  paused,  then  added  emphatically: 
"When  my  detail  arrives  here,  which  will  probably  be  m 
three  or  four  days,  you  must  not  be  here.  You  must  not 
be  in  any  place  where  we  can  find  you." 

For  a  little  while,  Samson  looked  at  the  other  man 
With  a  slow  smile  of  amusement,  but  soon  it  died,  and 
his  face  grew  hard  and  determined. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,  Callomb,"  he  said,  seriously. 
"It  was  more  than  I  had  the  right  to  expect — this 
warning.  I  understand  the  cost  of  giving  it.  But  it's 
no  use.  I  can't  cut  and  run.  No,  by  God,  you  wouldn't 
do  it !  You  can't  ask  me  to  do  it." 

"By  God,  you  can  and  will!"  Callomb  spoke  with 
determination.  "This  isn't  a  time  for  quibbling. 
You've  got  work  to  do.  We  both  have  work  to  do. 
We  can't  stand  on  a  matter  of  vainglorious  pride,  and 
let  big  issues  of  humanity  go  to  pot.  We  haven't  the 
right  to  spend  men's  lives  in  fighting  each  other,  when 
we  are  the  only  two  men  in  this  entanglement  who  are 
in  perfect  accord — and  honest." 

The  mountaineer  spent  some  minutes  in  silent  self- 
debate.  The  working  of  his  face  under  the  play  of 
alternating  doubt,  resolution,  hatred  and  insurgency, 
told  the  militiaman  what  a  struggle  was  progressing. 
At  last,  Samson's  eyes  cleared  with  an  expression  of 
discovered  solution. 


318     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"All  right,  Callomb,"  he  said,  briefly,  "you  won't  fine! 
me!"  He  smiled,  as  he  added:  "Make  as  thorough  a 
search  as  your  duty  demands.  It  needn't  be  perfunc 
tory  or  superficial.  Every  South  cabin  will  stand  open 
to  you.  I  shall  be  extremely  busy,  to  ends  which  you 
will  approve.  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  shall  be  doing, 
because  to  do  that,  I  should  have  to  tell  where  I  m^an 
to  be." 

In  two  days,  the  Grand  Jury,  with  much  secrecy, 
returned  a  true  bill,  and  a  day  later  a  considerable 
detachment  of  infantry  started  on  a  dusty  hike  up 
Misery.  Furtive  and  inscrutable  Hollman  eyes  along 
the  way  watched  them  from  cabin-doors,  and  counted 
them.  They  meant  also  to  count  them  coming  back, 

and  they  did  not  expect  the  totals  to  tally. 

****** 

Back  of  an  iron  spiked  fence,  and  a  dusty  sunburned 
lawn,  the  barrack-like  fa9ades  of  the  old  Administra 
tion  Building  and  Kentucky  State  Capitol  frowned  on 
the  street  and  railroad  track.  About  it,  on  two  sides 
of  the  Kentucky  River,  sprawled  the  town  of  Frank 
fort  ;  sleepy,, more  or  less  disheveled  at  the  center,  and 
stretching  to  shaded  environs  of  Colonial  houses  set  in 
lawns  of  rich  bluegrass,  amid  the  shade  of  forest  trees. 
Circling  the  town  in  an  embrace  of  quiet  beauty  rose 
the  Kentucky  River  hills. 

Turning  in  to  the  gate  of  the  State  House  enclosure, 
a  man,  who  seemed  to  be  an  Easterner  by  the  cut  of  his 
clothes,  walked  slowly  up  the  brick  walk,  and  passed 
around  the  fountain  at  the  front  of  the  Capitol.  He 
scwled  to  himself  as  his  wandering  eyes  caught  the 
distant  walls  and  roofs  of  the  State  Prison  on  the  hill- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     319 

side.  His  steps  carried  him  direct  to  the  main  entrance 
of  the  Administration  Building,  and,  having  paused  a 
moment  in  the  rotunda,  he  entered  the  Secretary's  office 
of  the  Executive  suite,  and  asked  for  an  interview  with 
the  Governor.  The  Secretary,  whose  duties  were  in  part 
playing  Cerberus  at  that  threshold,  made  his  customary 
swift,  though  unobtrusive,  survey  of  the  applicant  for 
audience,  and  saw  nothing  to  excite  suspicion. 

"Have  you  an  appointment  ?"  he  asked. 

The  visitor  shook  his  head.  Scribbling  a  brief  note 
on  a  slip  of  paper,  he  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope  and 
handed  it  to  his  questioner. 

"You  must  pardon  my  seeming  mysteriousness,"  he 
said,  "but,  if  you  will  let  me  send  in  that  note,  I  think 
the  Governor  will  see  me." 

Once  more  the  Secretary  studied  his  man  with  a 
slightly  puzzled  air,  then  nodded  and  went  through  the 
door  that  gave  admission  to  the  Executive's  office.. 

His  Excellency  opened  the  envelope,  and  his  face 
showed  an  expression  of  surprise.  He  raised  his  brows 
questioningly. 

"Rough-looking  sort?"  he  inquired.   "Mountaineer?" 

"No,  sir.  New  Yorker  would  be  my  guess.  Is  there 
anything  suspicious  r" 

"I  guess  not."  The  Governor  laughed.  "Rather 
extraordinary  note,  but  send  him- in." 

Through  his  eastern  window,  the  Governor  gazed  off 
across  the  hills  of  South  Frankfort,  to  the  ribbon  of 
river  that  came  down  from  the  troublesome  hills. .  Then, 
hearing  a  movement  at  his  back,  he  turned,  and  his 
eyes  took  in  a  well-dressed  figure  with  confidence-in 
spiring  features. 


320     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

He  picked  up  the  slip  from  his  desk,  and,  for 
a  moment,  stood  comparing  the  name  and  the  message 
with  the  man  who  had  sent  them  in.  There  seemed  to 
be  in  his  mind  some  irreconcilable  contradiction  between 
the  two.  With  a  slightly  frowning  seriousness,  the 
Executive  suggested: 

"This  note  says  that  you  are  Samson  South,  and  that 
you  want  to  see  me  with  reference  to  a  pardon.  Whose 
pardon  is  it,  Mr.  South?" 

"My  own,  sir." 

The  Governor  raised  his  brows,  slightly. 

"Your  pardon  for  what?  The  newspapers  do  not 
even  report  that  you  have  yet  been  indicted."  He 
shaded  the  word  "yet"  with  a  slight  emphasis. 

"I  think  I  have  been  indicted  within  the  past  day 
or  two.  I'm  not  sure  myself." 

The  Governor  continued  to  stare.  The  impression 
he  had  formed  of  the  "Wildcat"  from  press  dispatches 
was  warring  with  the  pleasing  personal  presence  of  this 
visitor.  Then,  his  forehead  wrinkled  under  his  black 
hair,  and  his  lips  drew  themselves  sternly. 

"You  have  come  to  me  too  soon,  sir,"  he  said 
curtly.  "The  pardoning  power  is  a  thing  to  be  most 
cautiously  used  at  all  times,  and  certainly  never  until 
the  courts  have  acted.  A  case  not  yet  adjudicated  can 
not  address  itself  to  executive  clemency." 

Samson  nodded. 

"Quite  true,"  he  admitted.  "If  I  announced  that  I 
had  come  on  the  matter  of  a  pardon,  it  was  largely  that 
I  had  to  state  some  business  and  that  seemed  the  briefest 
way  of  putting  it." 

"Then,  there  is  something  else?" 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     321 

"Yes.  If  it  were  only  a  plea  for  clemency,  I  should 
expect  the  matter  to  be  chiefly  important  to  myself.  In 
point  of  fact,  I  hope  to  make  it  equally  interesting 
to  you.  Whether  you  give  me  a  pardon  in  a  fashion 
which  violates  all  precedent,  or  whether  I  surrender 
myself,  and  go  back  to  a  trial  which  will  be  merely 
a  form  of  assassination,  rests  entirely  with  you,  sir. 
You  will  not  find  me  insistent." 

"If,"  said  the  Governor,  with  a  trace  of  warning 
in  his  voice,  "your  preamble  is  simply  a  device  to 
pique  my  interest  with  its  unheard-of  novelty,  I  may 
as  well  confess  that  so  far  it  has  succeeded." 

"In  that  case,  sir,"  responded  Samson,  gravely,  "I 
have  scored  a  point.  If,  when  I  am  through,  you  find 
that  I  have  been  employing  a  subterfuge,  I  fancy  a 
touch  of  that  bell  under  your  finger  will  give  you  the 
means  of  summoning  an  officer.  I  am  ready  to  turn 
myself  over." 

Then,  Samson  launched  into  the  story  of  his  desires 
and  the  details  of  conditions  which  outside  influences 
had  been  powerless  to  remedy — because  they  were  out 
side  influences.  Some  man  of  sufficient  vigor  and  com 
prehension,  acting  from  the  center  of  disturbance, 
must  be  armed  with  the  power  to  undertake  the  house- 
cleaning,  and  for  a  while  must  do  work  that  would  not 
be  pretty.  As  far  as  he  was  personally  concerned,  a 
pardon  after  trial  would  be  a  matter  of  purely  aca 
demic  interest.  He  could  not  expect  to  survive  a  trial. 
He  was  at  present  able  to  hold  the  Souths  in  leash. 
If  the  Governor  was  not  of  that  mind,  he  was  now 
ready  to  surrender  himself,  and  permit  matters  to  take 
their  course. 


322    THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

"And  now,  Mr.  South?"  suggested  the  Governor, 
after  a  half-hour  of  absorbed  listening.  "There  is 
one  point  you  have  overlooked.  Since  in  the  end  the 
whole  thing  comes  back  to  the  exercise  of  the  pardon 
ing  power,  it  is  after  all  the  crux  of  the  situation. 
You  may  be  able  to  render  such  services  as  those  for 
which  you  volunteer.  Let  us  for  the  moment  assume 
that  to  be  true.  You  have  not  yet  told  me  a  very  im 
portant  thing.  Did  you  or  did  you  not  kill  Purvy  and 
Hollis?" 

"I  killed  Hollis,"  said  Samson,  as  though  he  were 
answering  a  question  as  to  the  time  of  day,  "and  I 
did  not  kill  Purvy." 

"Kindly,"  suggested  the  Governor,  "give  me  the 
full  particulars  of  that  affair." 

The  two  were  still  closeted,  when  a  second  visitor 
called,  and  was  told  that  his  Excellency  could  not  be 
disturbed.  The  second  visitor,  however,  was  so  insistent 
that  the  secretary  finally  consented  to  take  in  the  card. 
After  a  glance  at  it,  his  chief  ordered  admission. 

The  door  opened,  and  Captain  Callomb  entered. 

He  was  now  in  civilian  clothes,  with  portentous 
news  written  on  his  face.  He  paused  in  annoyance  at 
the  sight  of  a  second  figure  standing  with  back  turned 
at  the  window.  Then  Samson  wheeled,  and  the  two 
men  recognized  each  other.  They  had  met  before  only 
when  one  was  in  olive  drab;  the  other  in  jeans  and 
butternut.  At  recognition,  Callomb's  face  fell,  and 
grew  troubled. 

"You  here,  South!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought  you 
promised  me  that  I  shouldn't  find  you.  God  knows  I 
didn't  want  to  meet  you." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     323 

"Nor  I  you,"  Samson  spoke  slowly.  "I  supposed 
you'd  be  raking  the  hills." 

Neither  of  them  was  for  the  moment  paying  the  least 
attention  to  the  Governor,  who  stood  quietly  looking  on. 

"I  sent  Merriwether  out  there,"  explained  Callomb, 
impatiently.  "I  wanted  to  come  here  before  it  was  too 
late.  God  knows,  South,  I  wouldn't  have  had  this 
meeting  occur  for  anything  under  heaven.  It  leaves 
me  no  choice.  You  are  indicted  on  two  counts,  each 
charging  you  with  murder."  The  officer  took  a  step 
toward  the  center  of  the  room.  His  face  was  weary, 
and  his  eyes  wore  the  deep  disgust  and  fatigue  that 
come  from  the  necessity  of  performing  a  hard  duty. 

"You  are  under  arrest,"  he  added  quietly,  but  his 
composure  broke  as  he  stormed.  "Now,  by  God,  I've 
got  to  take  you  back  and  let  them  murder  you,  and 
you're  the  one  man  who  might  have  been  useful  to  the 
State." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  Governor  had  been  more  influenced  by  watch 
ing  the  two  as  they  talked  than  by  what  he 
had  heard. 

"It  seems  to  me,  gentlemen,"  he  suggested  quietly, 
"that  you  are  both  overlooking  my  presence."  He 
turned  to  Callomb. 

"Your  coming,  Sid,  unless  it  was  prearranged  be 
tween  the  two  of  you  (which,  since  I  know  you,  I  know 
was  not  the  case)  has  shed  more  light  on  this  matter 
than  the  testimony  of  a  dozen  witnesses.  After  all, 
I'm  still  the  Governor." 

The  militiaman  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  existence 
of  his  distinguished  kinsman,  and,  at  the  voice,  his  eyes 
came  away  from  the  face  of  the  man  he  had  not  wanted 
to  capture,  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  merely  the  head  of  the  executive  branch," 
he  said.  "You  are  as  helpless  here  as  I  am.  Neither 
of  us  can  interfere  with  the  judicial  gentry,  though 
we  may  know  that  they  stink  to  high  heaven  with  the 
stench  of  blood.  After  a  conviction,  you  can  pardon, 
but  a  pardon  won't  help  the  dead.  I  don't  see  that  you 
can  do  much  of  anything,  Crit." 

"I  don't  know  yet  what  I  can  do,  but  I  can  tell  you 
I'm  going  to  do  something,"  said  the  Governor.  "You 
can  just  begin  watching  me.  In  the  meantime,  I  believe 
I  am  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  State  troops." 

324. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     325 

"And  I  am  Captain  of  F  Company,  but  all  I  can 
do  is  to  obey  the  orders  of  a  bunch  of  Borgias." 

"As  your  superior  officer,"  smiled  the  Governor,  "I 
can  give  you  orders.  I'm  going  to  give  you  one  now. 
Mr.  South  has  applied  to  me  for  a  pardon  in  advance 
of  trial.  Technically,  I  have  the  power  to  grant  that 
request.  Morally,  I  doubt  my  right.  Certainly,  I  shall 
not  do  it  without  a  very  thorough  sifting  of  evidence 
and  grave  consideration  of  the  necessities  of  the  case — 
as  well  as  the  danger  of  the  precedent.  However,  I 
am  considering  it,  and  for  the  present  you  will  parole 
your  prisoner  in  my  custody.  Mr.  South,  you  will  not 
leave  Frankfort  without  my  permission.  You  will  take 
every  precaution  to  conceal  your  actual  identity.  You 
will  treat  as  utterly  confidential  all  that  has  transpired 
here — and,  above  all,  you  will  not  let  newspaper  men 
discover  you.  Those  are  my  orders.  Report  here  to 
morrow  afternoon,  and  remember  that  you  are  my 
prisoner." 

Samson  bowed,  and  left  the  two  cousins  together, 
where  shortly  they  were  joined  by  the  Attorney  Gen 
eral.  That  evening,  the  three  dined  at  the  executive 
mansion,  and  sat  until  midnight  in  the  Governor's  pri 
vate  office,  still  deep  in  discussion.  During  the  long 
session,  Callomb  opened  the  bulky  volume  of  the  Ken 
tucky  Statutes,  and  laid  his  finger  on  Section  2673. 

"There's  the  rub,"  he  protested,  reading  aloud :  'The 
military  shall  be  at  all  times,  and  in  all  cases,  in  strict 
subordination  to  the  civil  power.' ' 

The  Governor  glanced  down  to  the  next  paragraph, 
and  read  in  part :  "  'The  Governor  may  direct  the  com 
manding  officer  of  the  military  force  to  report  to  any 


326     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

one  of  the  following-named  officers  of  the  district  in 
which  the  said  force  is  employed:  Mayor  of  a  city, 
sheriff,  jailer  or  marshal.' ' 

"Which  list,"  stormed  Callomb,  "is  the  honor  roll  of 
the  assassins." 

"At  all  events" — the  Governor  had  derived  from  Cal 
lomb  much  information  as  to  Samson  South  which  the 
mountaineer  himself  had  modestly  withheld — "South 
gets  his  pardon.  That  is  only  a  step.  I  wish  I  could 
make  him  satrap  over  his  province,  and  provide  him 
with  troops  to  rule  it.  Unfortunately,  our  form  of 
government  has  its  drawbacks." 

"It  might  be  possible,"  ventured  the  Attorney  Gen 
eral,  "to  impeach  the  Sheriff,  and  appoint  this  or  some 
other  suitable  man  to  fill  the  vacancy  until  the  next 
election." 

"The  Legislature  doesn't  meet  until  next  winter," 
objected  Callomb.  "There  is  one  chance.  The  Sheriff 
down  there  is  a  sick  man.  Let  us  hope  he  may  die." 

One  day,  the  Hixon  conclave  met  in  the  room  over 
Hollman's  Mammoth  Department  Store,  and  with  much 
profanity  read  a  communication  from  Frankfort,  an 
nouncing  the  pardon  of  Samson  South.  In  that  epi 
sode,  they  foresaw  the  beginning  of  the  end  for  their 
dynasty.  The  outside  world  was  looking  on,  and  their 
regime  could  not  survive  the  spotlight  of  law-loving 
scrutiny. 

"The  fust  thing,"  declared  Judge  Hollman,  curtly, 
"is  to  get  rid  of  these  damned  soldiers.  We'll  attend 
to  our  own  business  later,  and  we  don't  want  them 
watchin'  us.  Just  now,  we  want  to  lie  mighty  quiet  for 
a  spell — teetotally  quiet  until  I  pass  the  word." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     327 

Samson  had  won  back  the  confidence  of  his  tribe,  and 
enlisted  the  faith  of  the  State  administration.  He 
had  been  authorized  to  organize  a  local  militia  com 
pany,  and  to  drill  them,  provided  he  could  stand  an 
swerable  for  their  conduct.  The  younger  Souths  took 
gleefully  to  that  idea.  The  mountain  boy  makes  a  good 
soldier,  once  he  has  grasped  the  idea  of  discipline.  For 
ten  weeks,  they  drilled  daily  in  squads  and  weekly  in 
platoons.  Then,  the  fortuitous  came  to  pass.  Sheriff 
Forbin  died,  leaving  behind  him  an  unexpired  term  of 
two  years,  and  Samson  was  summoned  hastily  to  Frank 
fort.  He  returned,  bearing  his  commission  as  High 
Sheriff,  though,  when  that  news  reached  Hixon,  there 
were  few  men  who  envied  him  his  post,  and  none  who 
cared  to  bet  that  he  would  live  to  take  his  oath  of  office. 

That  August  court  day  was  a  memorable  one  in 
Hixon.  Samson  South  was  coming  to  town  to  take  up 
his  duties.  Every  one  recognized  it  as  the  day  of 
final  issue,  and  one  that  could  hardly  pass  without 
bloodshed.  The  Hollmans,  standing  in  their  last 
trench,  saw  only  the  blunt  question  of  Hollman-South 
supremacy.  For  years,  the  feud  had  flared  and  slept 
and  broken  again  into  eruption,  but  never  before  had 
a  South  sought  to  throw  his  outposts  of  power  across 
the  waters  of  Crippleshin,  and  into  the  county  seat. 
That  the  present  South  came  bearing  commission  as 
an  officer  of  the  law  only  made  his  effrontery  the  more 
unendurable. 

Samson  had  not  called  for  outside  troops.  The  drill 
ing  and  disciplining  of  his  own  company  had  progressed 
in  silence  along  the  waters  of  Misery.  They  were  a 
slouching,  unmilitary  band  of  uniformed  vagabonds, 


328     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

but  they  were  longing  to  fight,  and  Callomb  had  been 
with  them,  tirelessly  whipping  them  into  rudimentary 
shape.  After  all,  they  were  as  much  partisans  as  they 
had  been  before  they  were  issued  State  rifles.  The 
battle,  if  it  came,  would  be  as  factional  as  the  fight 
of  twenty-five  years  ago,  when  the  Hollmans  held  the 
store  and  the  Souths  the  court-house.  But  back  of 
all  that  lay  one  essential  difference,  and  it  was  this 
difference  that  had  urged  the  Governor  to  stretch  the 
forms  of  law  and  put  such  dangerous  power  into  the 
hands  of  one  man.  That  difference  was  the  man  him 
self.  He  was  to  take  drastic  steps,  but  he  was  to  take 
them  under  the  forms  of  law,  and  the  State  Executive 
believed  that,  having  gone  through  worse  to  better,  he 
would  maintain  the  improved  condition. 

Early  that  morning,  men  began  to  assemble  along 
the  streets  of  Hixon;  and  to  congregate  into  sullen 
clumps  with  set  faces  that  denoted  a  grim,  unsmiling 
determination.  Not  only  the  Hollmans  from  the  town 
and  immediate  neighborhood  were  there,  but  their  shag 
gier,  fiercer  brethren  from  remote  creeks  and  coves,  who 
came  only  at  urgent  call,  and  did  not  come  without 
intent  of  vindicating  their  presence.  Old  Jake  Holl- 
man,  from  "over  yon"  on  the  headwaters  of  Dryhole 
Creek,  brought  his  son  and  fourteen-year-old  grandson, 
and  all  of  them  carried  Winchesters.  Long  before  the 
hour  for  the  court-house  bell  to  sound  the  call  which 
would  bring  matters  to  a  crisis,  women  disappeared 
from  the  streets,  and  front  shutters  and  doors  closed 
themselves.  At  last,  the  Souths  began  to  ride  in  by 
half-dozens,  and  to  hitch  their  horses  at  the  racks. 
They,  also,  fell  into  groups  well  apart.  The  two  fac- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     329 

tions  eyed  each  other  somberly,  sometimes  nodding  or 
exchanging  greetings,  for  the  time  had  not  yet  come  to 
fight.  Slowly,  however,  the  Hollmans  began  centering 
about  the  court-house.  They  swarmed  in  the  yard,  and 
entered  the  empty  jail,  and  overran  the  halls  and  offices 
of  the  building  itself.  They  took  their  places  massed 
at  the  windows.  The  Souths,  now  coming  in  a  solid 
stream,  flowed  with  equal  unanimity  to  McEwer's  Hotel, 
near  the  square,  and  disappeared  inside.  Besides  their 
rifles,  they  carried  saddlebags,  but  not  one  of  the  uni 
forms  which  some  of  these  bags  contained,  nor  one  of 
the  cartridge  belts,  had  yet  been  exposed  to  view. 

Stores  opened,  but  only  for  a  desultory  pretense  of 
business.  Horsemen  led  their  mounts  away  from  the 
more  public  racks,  and  tethered  them  to  back  fences  and 
willow  branches  in  the  shelter  of  the  river  banks,  where 
stray  bullets  would  not  find  them. 

The  dawn  that  morning  had  still  been  gray  when 
Samson  South  and  Captain  Callomb  had  passed  the 
Miller  cabin.  Callomb  had  ridden  slowly  on  around 
the  turn  of  the  road,  and  waited  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away.  He  was  to  command  the  militia  that  day,  if 
the  High  Sheriff  should  call  upon  him.  Samson  went 
in  and  knocked,  and  instantly  to  the  cabin  door  came 
Sally's  slender,  fluttering  figure.  She  put  both  arms 
about  him,  and  her  eyes,  as  she  looked  into  his  face, 
were  terrified,  but  tearless. 

"I'm  frightened,  Samson,"  she  whispered.  "God 
knows  I'm  going  to  be  praying  all  this  day." 

"Sally,"  he  said,  softly,  "I'm  coming  back  to  you — 
but,  if  I  don't" — he  held  her  very  close — "Uncle  Spicer 
has  my  will.  The  farm  is  full  of  coal,  and  days  are 


330     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

coming  when  roads  will  take  it  out,  and  every  ridge 
will  glow  with  coke  furnaces.  That  farm  will  make 
you  rich,  if  we  win  to-day's  fight." 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  gasp.  "Don't 
talk  like  that." 

"I  must,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  want  you  to  make 
me  a  promise,  Sally." 

"It's  made,"  she  declared. 

"If,  by  any  chance  I  should  not  come  back,  I  want  you 
to  hold  Uncle  Spicer  and  old  Wile  McCager  to  their 
pledge.  They  must  not  privately  avenge  me.  They 
must  still  stand  for  the  law.  I  want  you,  and  this  is 
most  important  of  all,  to  leave  these  mountains " 

Her  hands  tightened  on  his  shoulders. 

"Not  that,  Samson,"  she  pleaded;  "not  these  moun 
tains  where  we've  been  together." 

"You  promised.  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  Lescotts 
in  New  York.  In  a  year,  you  can  come  back — if  you 
want  to ;  but  you  must  promise  that." 

"I  promise,"  she  reluctantly  yielded. 

It  was  half-past  nine  o'clock  when  Samson  South 
and  Sidney  Callomb  rode  side  by  side  into  Hixon  from 
the  east.  A  dozen  of  the  older  Souths,  who  had  not 
become  soldiers,  met  them  there,  and,  with  no  word, 
separated  to  close  about  them  in  a  circle  of  protection. 
As  Callomb's  eyes  swept  the  almost  deserted  streets,  sc 
silent  that  the  strident  switching  of  a  freight  train 
could  be  heard  down  at  the  edge  of  town,  he  shook  his 
head.  As  he  met  the  sullen  glances  of  the  gathering 
in  the  court-house  yard,  he  turned  to  Samson. 

"They'll  fight,"  he  said,  briefly. 

Samson  nodded. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     331 

"I  don't  understand  the  method,"  demurred  the 
officer,  with  perplexity.  "Why  don't  they  shoot  you 
at  once.  What  are  they  waiting  for?" 

"They  want  to  see,"  Samson  assured  him,  "what 
tack  I  mean  to  take.  They  want  to  let  the  thing  play 
itself  out.  They're  inquisitive — and  they're  cautious, 
because  now  they  are  bucking  the  State  and  the  world." 

Samson  with  his  escort  rode  up  to  the  court-house 
door,  and  dismounted.  He  was  for  the  moment  un 
armed,  and  his  men  walked  on  each  side  of  him,  while  the 
onlooking  Hollmans  stood  back  in  surly  silence  to  let 
him  pass.  In  the  office  of  the  County  Judge,  Samson 
said  briefly : 

"I  want  to  get  my  deputies  sworn  in." 

"We've  got  plenty  deputy  sheriffs,"  was  the  quietly 
insolent  rejoinder. 

"Not  now — we  haven't  any."  Samson's  voice  was 
sharply  incisive.  "I'll  name  my  own  assistants." 

"What's  the  matter  with  these  boys?"  The  County 
Judge  waved  his  hand  toward  two  hold-over  deputies. 

"They're  fired." 

The  County  Judge  laughed. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  can't  attend  to  that  right  now." 

"Then,  you  refuse?" 

"Mebby  you  might  call  it  that." 

Samson  leaned  on  the  Judge's  table,  and  rapped 
sharply  with  his  knuckles.  His  handful  of  men  stood 
close,  and  Callomb  caught  his  breath,  in  the  heavy  air 
of  storm-freighted  suspense.  The  Hollman  parti 
sans  filled  the  room,  and  others  were  crowding  to  the 
doors. 

"I'm  High  Sheriff  of  this  County  now,"  said  Samson, 


332     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

sharply.  "You  are  County  Judge.  Do  we  cooperate — 
or  fight?" 

"I  reckon,"  drawled  the  other,  "that's  a  matter  we'll 
work  out  as  we  goes  along.  Depends  on  how  obedient 
ye  air." 

"I'm  responsible  for  the  peace  and  quiet  of  this 
County,"  continued  Samson.  "We're  going  to  have 
peace  and  quiet." 

The  Judge  looked  about  him.  The  indications  did 
not  appear  to  him  indicative  of  peace  and  quiet. 

"Air  we?"  he  inquired. 

"I'm  coming  back  here  in  a  half-hour,"  said  the  new 
Sheriff.  "This  is  an  unlawful  and  armed  assembly. 
When  I  get  back,  I  want  to  find  the  court-house  occu 
pied  only  by  unarmed  citizens  who  have  business 
here." 

"When  ye  comes  back,"  suggested  the  County  Judge, 
"I'd  advise  that  ye  resigns  yore  job.  A  half-hour  is 
about  es  long  as  ye  ought  ter  try  ter  hold  hit." 

Samson  turned  and  walked  through  the  scowling 
crowd  to  the  court-house  steps. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  a  clear,  far-carrying  voice, 
"there  is  no  need  of  an  armed  congregation  at  this 
court-house.  I  call  on  you  in  the  name  of  the  law  to 
lay  aside  your  arms  or  scatter." 

There  was  murmur  which  for  an  instant  threatened 
to  become  a  roar,  but  trailed  into  a  chorus  of  derisive 
laughter. 

Samson  went  to  the  hotel,  accompanied  by  Callomb. 
A  half -hour  later,  the  two  were  back  at  the  court-house, 
with  a  half-dozen  companions.  The  yard  was  empty. 
Samson  carried  his  father's  rifle.  In  that  half-hour 


a  telegram,  prepared  in  advance,  had  flashed  to 
Frankfort. 

"Mob  holds  court-house — need  troops." 

And  a  reply  had  flashed  back : 

"Use  local  company — Callomb  commanding."  So 
that  form  of  law  was  met. 

The  court-house  doors  were  closed,  and  its  windows 
barricaded.  The  place  was  no  longer  a  judicial  build 
ing.  It  was  a  fortress.  As  Samson's  party  paused  at 
the  gate,  a  warning  voice  called: 

"Don't  come  no  nigher !" 

The  body-guard  began  dropping  back  to  shelter. 

"I  demand  admission  to  the  court-house  to  make 
arrests,"  shouted  the  new  Sheriff.  In  answer,  a  spat 
tering  of  rifle  reports  came  from  the  jail  windows.  Two 
of  the  Souths  fell.  At  a  nod  from  Samson,  Callomb  left 
on  a  run  for  the  hotel.  The  Sheriff  himself  took  his 
position  in  a  small  store  across  the  street,  which  he 
reached  unhurt  under  a  desultory  fire. 

Then,  again,  silence  settled  on  the  town,  to  remain  for 
five  minutes  unbroken.  The  sun  glared  mercilessly  on 
clay  streets,  now  as  empty  as  a  cemetery.  A  single 
horse  incautiously  hitched  at  the  side  of  the  court 
house  switched  its  tail  against  the  assaults  of  the,  flies. 
Otherwise,  there  was  no  outward  sign  of  life.  Then, 
Callomb's  newly  organized  force  of  ragamuffin  soldiers 
clattered  down  the  street  at  double  time.  For  a  moment 
or  two  after  they  came  into  sight,  only  the  massed  uni 
forms  caught  the  eyes  of  the  intrenched  Hollmans,  and 
an  alarmed  murmur  broke  from  the  court-house.  They 
had  seen  no  troops  detrain,  or  pitch  camp.  These  men 
had  sprung  from  the  earth  as  startlingly  as  Jason's 


334,     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

crop  of  dragon's  teeth.  But,  when  the  command  rounded 
the  shoulder  of  a  protecting  wall  to  await  further 
orders,  the  ragged  stride  of  their  marching,  and  the 
all-too-obvious  bearing  of  the  mountaineer  proclaimed 
them  native  amateurs.  The  murmur  turned  to  a  howl  of 
derision  and  challenge.  They  were  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  South,  masquerading  in  the  uniforms  of  soldiers. 

"What  orders?"  inquired  Callomb  briefly,  joining 
Samson  in  the  store. 

"Demand  surrender  once  more — then  take  the  court 
house  and  jail,"  was  the  short  reply. 

There  was  little  conversation  in  the  ranks  of  the  new 
company,  but  their  faces  grew  black  as  they  listened  to 
the  jeers  and  insults  across  the  way,  and  they  greedily 
fingered  their  freshly  issued  rifles.  They  would  be  ready 
when  the  command  of  execution  came.  Callomb  himself 
went  forward  with  the  flag  of  truce.  He  shouted  his 
message,  and  a  bearded  man  came  to  the  court-house 
door. 

"Tell  'em,"  he  said  without  redundancy,  "thet  we're 
all  here.  Come  an'  git  us." 

The  officer  went  back,  and  distributed  his  forces  under 
such  cover  as  offered  itself,  about  the  four  walls.  Then, 
a  volley  was  fired  over  the  roof,  and  instantly  the  two 
buildings  in  the  public  square  awoke  to  a  volcanic 
response  of  rifle  fire. 

All  day,  the  duel  between  the  streets  and  county 
buildings  went  on  with  desultory  intervals  of  quiet  and 
wild  outbursts  of  musketry.  The  troops  were  firing  as 
sharpshooters,  and  the  court-house,  too,  had  its  sharp 
shooters.  When  a  head  showed  itself  at  a  barricaded 
window,  a  report  from  the  outside  greeted  it.  Samson 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     335 

was  everywhere,  his  rifle  smoking  and  hot-barreled.  His 
life  seemed  protected  by  a  talisman.  Yet,  most  of  the 
firing,  after  the  first  hour,  was  from  within.  The  troops 
were,  except  for  occasional  pot  shots,  holding  their 
fire.  There  was  neither  food  nor  water  inside  the  build 
ing,  and  at  last  night  closed  and  the  cordon  drew  tighter 
to  prevent  escape.  The  Hollmans,  like  rats  in  a  trap, 
grimly  held  on,  realizing  that  it  was  to  be  a  siege.  On 
the  following  morning,  a  detachment  of  F  Company 
arrived,  dragging  two  gatling  guns.  The  Hollmans 
saw  them  detraining,  from  their  lookout  in  the  court 
house  cupola,  and,  realizing  that  the  end  had  come, 
resolved  upon  a  desperate  sortie.  Simultaneously,  every 
door  and  lower  window  of  the  court-house  burst  open 
to  discharge  a  frenzied  rush  of  men,  firing  as  they  came. 
They  meant  to  eat  their  way  out  and  leave  as  many 
hostile  dead  as  possible  in  their  wake.  Their  one  chance 
now  was  to  scatter  before  the  machine-guns  came  into 
action.  They  came  like  a  flood  of  human  lava,  and  their 
guns  were  never  silent,  as  they  bore  down  on  the  barri 
cades,  where  the  single  outnumbered  company  seemed 
insufficient  to  hold  them.  But  the  new  militiamen,  look 
ing  for  reassurance  not  so  much  to  Callomb  as  to  the 
granite-like  face  of  Samson  South,  rallied,  and  rose 
with  a  yell  to  meet  them  on  bayonet  and  smoking  muz 
zle.  The  rush  wavered,  fell  back,  desperately  rallied, 
then  broke  in  scattered  remnants  for  the  shelter  of  the 
building. 

Old  Jake  Hollman  fell  near  the  door,  and  his  grand 
son,  rushing  out,  picked  up  his  fallen  rifle,  and  sent  fare 
well  defiance  from  it,  as  he,  too,  threw  up  both  arms 
and  dropped. 


336     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Then,  a  white  flag  wavered  at  a  window,  and,  as  the 
newly  arrived  troops  halted  in  the  street,  the  noise  died 
suddenly  to  quiet.  Samson  went  out  to  meet  a  man  who 
opened  the  door,  and  said  shortly : 

"We  lays  down." 

Judge  Hollman,  who  had  not  participated,  turned 
from  the  slit  in  his  shuttered  window,  through  which  he 
had  since  the  beginning  been  watching  the  conflict. 

"That  ends  it!"  he  said,  with  a  despairing  shrug  of 
his  shoulders.  He  picked  up  a  magazine  pistol  which 
lay  on  his  table,  and,  carefully  counting  down  his  chest 
to  the  fifth  rib,  placed  the  muzzle  against  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

BEFORE  the  mountain  roads  were  mired  with  the 
coming  of  the  rains,  and  while  the  air  held  its 
sparkle  of  autumnal  zestfulness,  Samson  South 
wrote  to  Wilfred  Horton  that,  if  he  still  meant  to  come 
to  the  hills  for  his  inspection  of  coal  and  timber,  the 
time  was  ripe.  Soon,  men  would  appear  bearing  transit 
and  chain,  drawing  a  line  which  a  railroad  was  to  follow 
to  Misery  and  across  it  to  the  heart  of  untouched  forests 
and  coal-fields.  With  that  wave  of  innovation  would 
come  the  speculators.  Besides,  Samson's  fingers  were 
itching  to  be  out  in  the  hills  with  a  palette  and  a  sheaf 
of  brushes  in  the  society  of  George  Lescott. 

For  a  while  after  the  battle  at  Hixon,  the  county  had 
lain  in  a  torpid  paralysis  of  dread.  Many  illiterate 
feudists  on  each  side  remembered  the  directing  and 
exposed  figure  of  Samson  South  seen  through  eddies 
of  gun  smoke,  and  believed  him  immune  from  death. 
With  Purvy  dead  and  Hollman  the  victim  of  his  own 
hand,  the  backbone  of  the  murder  syndicate  was  broken. 
Its  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  Those  Hollman  survivors 
who  bore  the  potentialities  for  leadership  had  not  only 
signed  pledges  of  peace,  but  were  afraid  to  break  them ; 
and  the  triumphant  Souths,  instead  of  vaunting  their 
victory,  had  subscribed  to  the  doctrine  of  order,  and 
declared  the  war  over.  Souths  who  broke  the  law  were 
as  speedily  arrested  as  Hollmans.  Their  boys  were 

337 


338     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

drilling  as  militiamen,  and — wonder  of  wonders! — in 
viting  the  sons  of  the  enemy  to  join  them.  Of  course, 
these  things  changed  gradually,  but  the  beginnings  of 
them  were  most  noticeable  in  the  first  few  months,  just 
as  a  newly  painted  and  renovated  house  is  more  con 
spicuous  than  one  that  has  been  long  respectable. 

Hollman's  Mammoth  Department  Store  passed  into 
new  hands,  and  trafficked  only  in  merchandise,  and  the 
town  was  open  to  the  men  and  women  of  Misery  as  well 
as  those  of  Crippleshin. 

These  things  Samson  had  explained  in  his  letters  to 
the  Lescotts  and  Horton.  Men  from  down  below  could 
still  find  trouble  in  the  wink  of  an  eye,  by  seeking  it, 
for  under  all  transformation  the  nature  of  the  indi 
vidual  remained  much  the  same ;  but,  without  seeking  to 
give  offense,  they  could  ride  as  securely  through  the 
hills  as  through  the  streets  of  a  policed  city — and  meet 
a  readier  hospitality. 

And,  when  these  things  were  discussed  and  the  two 
men  prepared  to  cross  the  Mason-and-Dixon  line  and 
visit  the  Cumberlands,  Adrienne  promptly  and  definitely 
announced  that  she  would  accompany  her  brother.  No 
argument  was  effective  to  dissuade  her,  and  after  all 
Lescott,  who  had  been  there,  saw  no  good  reason  why 
she  should  not  go  with  him.  He  had  brought  Samson 
North.  He  had  made  a  hazardous  experiment  which 
subsequent  events  had  more  than  vindicated,  and  yet,  in 
one  respect,  he  feared  that  there  had  been  failure.  He 
had  promised  Sally  that  her  lover  would  return  to  her 
with  undeflected  loyalty.  Had  he  done  so?  Lescott 
had  been  glad  that  his  sister  should  have  undertaken 
the  part  of  Samson's  molding,  which  only  a  woman's 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS    339 

hand  could  accomplish,  and  he  had  been  glad  of  the 
strong  friendship  that  had  grown  between  them.  But, 
if  that  friendship  had  come  to  mean  something  more 
sentimental,  his  experiment  had  been  successful  at  the 
cost  of  unsuccess.  He  had  said  little,  but  watched 
much,  and  he  had  known  that,  after  receiving  a  certain 
letter  from  Samson  South,  his  sister  had  seemed 
strangely  quiet  and  distressed.  These  four  young  per 
sons  had  snarled  their  lives  in  perplexity.  They  could 
definitely  find  themselves  and  permanently  adjust  them 
selves,  only  by  meeting  on  common  ground.  Perhaps, 
Samson  had  shone  in  an  exaggerated  high-light  of 
fascination  by  the  strong  contrast  into  which  New 
York  had  thrown  him.  Wilfred  Horton  had  the  right 
to  be  seen  also  in  contrast  with  mountain  life,  and 
then  only  could  the  girl  decide  for  all  time  and  irrevo 
cably.  The  painter  learns  something  of  confused 
values. 

Horton  himself  had  seen  small  reason  for  a  growth 
of  hope  in  these  months,  but  he,  like  Lescott,  felt  that 
the  matter  must  come  to  issue,  and  he  was  not  of  that 
type  which  shrinks  from  putting  to  the  touch  a  question 
of  vital  consequence.  He  knew  that  her  happiness  as 
well  as  his  own  was  in  the  balance.  He  was  not  embit 
tered  or  deluded,  as  a  narrower  man  might  have  been, 
into  the  fallacy  that  her  treatment  of  him  denoted 
fickleness.  Adrienne  was  merely  running  the  boundary 
line  that  separates  deep  friendship  from  love,  a 
boundary  which  is  often  confusing.  When  she  had 
finally  staked  out  the  disputed  frontier,  it  would  never 
again  be  questioned.  But  on  which  side  he  would  find 
himself,  he  did  not  know. 


At  Hixon,  they  found  that  deceptive  air  of  serenity 
which  made  the  history  of  less  than  three  months  ago 
seem  paradoxical  and  fantastically  unreal.  Only  about 
the  court-house  square  where  numerous  small  holes  in 
frame  walls  told  of  fusillades,  and  in  the  interior  of  the 
building  itself  where  the  woodwork  was  scarred  and 
torn,  and  the  plaster  freshly  patched,  did  they  find 
grimly  reminiscent  evidence. 

Samson  had  not  met  them  at  the  town,  because  he 
wished  their  first  impressions  of  his  people  to  reach  them 
uninfluenced  by  his  escort.  It  was  a  form  of  the  moun 
tain  pride — an  honest  resolve  to  soften  nothing,  and 
make  no  apologies.  But  they  found  arrangements  made 
for  horses  and  saddlebags,  and  the  girl  discovered  that 
for  her  had  been  provided  a  mount  as  evenly  gaited  as 
any  in  her  own  stables. 

When  she  and  her  two  companions  came  out  to  the 
hotel  porch  to  start,  they  found  a  guide  waiting,  who 
said  he  was  instructed  to  take  them  as  far  as  the  ridge, 
where  the  Sheriff  himself  would  be  waiting,  and  the 
cavalcade  struck  into  the  hills.  Men  at  whose  houses 
they  paused  to  ask  a  dipper  of  water,  or  to  make  an 
inquiry,  gravely  advised  that  they  "had  better  light, 
and  stay  all  night."  In  the  coloring  forests,  squirrels 
scampered  and  scurried  out  of  sight,  and  here  and  there 
on  the  tall  slopes  they  saw  shy-looking  children  regard 
ing  them  with  inquisitive  eyes. 

The  guide  led  them  silently,  gazing  in  frank  amaze 
ment,  though  deferential  politeness,  at  this  girl  in  cord 
uroys,  who  rode  cross-saddle,  and  rode  so  well.  Yet, 
it  was  evident  that  he  would  have  preferred  talking  had 
not  diffidence  restrained  him.  He  was  a  young  man  and 


rather  handsome  in  a  shaggy,  unkempt  way.  Across 
one  cheek  ran  a  long  scar  still  red,  and  the  girl,  looking 
into  his  clear,  intelligent  eyes,  wondered  what  that  scar 
stood  for.  Adrienne  had  the  power  of  melting  masculine 
diffidence,  and  her  smile  as  she  rode  at  his  side,  and 
asked,  "What  is  your  name?"  brought  an  answering 
smile  to  his  grim  lips. 

"Joe  Hollman,  ma'am,"  he  answered;  and  the  girl 
gave  an  involuntary  start.  The  two  men  who  caught 
the  name  closed  up  the  gap  between  the  horses,  with  sud 
denly  piqued  interest. 

"Hollman !"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Then,  you — "  She 
stopped  and  flushed.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said, 
quickly. 

"That's  all  right,"  reassured  the  man.  "I  know  what 
ye're  a-thinkin',  but  I  hain't  takin'  no  offense.  The 
High  Sheriff  sent  me  over.  I'm  one  of  his  deputies." 

"Were  you" — she  paused,  and  added  rather  timidly 
— "were  you  in  the  court-house  ?" 

He  nodded,  and  with  a  brown  forefinger  traced  the 
scar  on  his  cheek. 

"Samson  South  done  that  thar  with  his  rifle-gun,"  he 
enlightened.  "He's  a  funny  sort  of  feller,  is  Samson 
South." 

"How?"  she  asked. 

"Wall,  he  licked  us,  an'  he  licked  us  so  plumb  damn 
hard  we  was  skeered  ter  fight  ag'in,  an'  then,  'stid  of 
tramplin'  on  us,  he  turned  right  'round,  an'  made  me  a 
deputy.  My  brother's  a  corporal  in  this  hyar  new 
fangled  milishy.  I  reckon  this  time  the  peace  is  goin' 
ter  last.  Hit's  a  mighty  funny  way  ter  act,  but  'pears 
like  it  works  all  right." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

Then,  at  the  ridge,  the  girl's  heart  gave  a  sudden 
bound,  for  there  at  the  highest  point,  where  the  road 
went  up  and  dipped  again,  waited  the  mounted  figure  of 
Samson  South,  and,  as  they  came  into  sight,  he  waved 
his  felt  hat,  and  rode  down  to  meet  them. 

"Greetings !"  he  shtfuted.  Then,  as  he  leaned  over 
and  took  Adrienne's  hand,  he  added:  "The  Goops  send 
you  their  welcome."  His  smile  was  unchanged,  but  the 
girl  noted  that  his  hair  had  again  grown  long. 

Finally,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  they  reached  a  road 
side  cabin,  and  the  mountaineer  said  briefly  to  the  other 
men: 

"You  fellows  ride  on.  I  want  Drennie  to  stop  with 
me  a  moment.  We'll  join  you  later." 

Lescott  nodded.  He  remembered  the  cabin  of  the 
Widow  Miller,  and  Horton  rode  with  him,  albeit 
grudgingly. 

Adrienne  sprang  lightly  to  the  ground,  laughingly 
rejecting  Samson's  assistance,  and  came  with  him  to  the 
top  of  a  stile,  from  which  he  pointed  to  the  log  cabin, 
set  back  in  its  small  yard,  wherein  geese  and  chickens 
picked  industriously  about  in  the  sandy  earth. 

A  huge  poplar  and  a  great  oak  nodded  to  each  other 
at  either  side  of  the  door,  and  over  the  walls  a  clamber 
ing  profusion  of  honeysuckle  vine  contended  with  a  mass 
of  wild  grape,  in  joint  effort  to  hide  the  white  chinking 
between  the  dark  logs.  From  the  crude  milk-benches  to 
the  sweep  of  the  well,  every  note  was  one  of  neatness  and 
rustic  charm.  Slowly,  he  said,  looking  straight  into 
her  eyes: 

"This  is  Sally's  cabin,  Drennie." 

He  watched  her  expression,  and  her  lips  curved  up 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND     343 

in  the  same  sweetness  of  smile  that  had  first  captivated 
and  helped  to  mold  him. 

"It's  lovely !"  she  cried,  with  f rauk  delight.  "It's  a 
picture." 

"Wait !"  he  commanded.  Then,  turning  toward  the 
house,  he  sent  out  the  long,  peculiarly  mournful  call  of 
the  whippoorwill,  and,  at  the  signal,  the  door  opened, 
and  on  the  threshold  Adrienne  saw  a  slender  figure. 
She  had  called  the  cabin  with  its  shaded  dooryard  a 
picture,  but  now  she  knew  she  had  been  wrong.  It  was 
only  a  background.  It  was  the  girl  herself  who  made 
and  completed  the  picture.  She  stood  there  in  the  wild 
simplicity  that  artists  seek  vainly  to  reproduce  in  posed 
figures.  Her  red  calico  dress  was  patched,  but  fell  in 
graceful  lines  to  her  slim  bare  ankles,  though  the  first 
faint  frosts  had  already  fallen. 

Her  red-brown  hair  hung  loose  and  in  masses  about 
the  oval  of  a  face  in  which  the  half-parted  lips  were 
dashes  of  scarlet,  and  the  eyes  large  violet  pools.  She 
stood  with  her  little  chin  tilted  in  a  half -wild  attitude 
of  reconnoiter,  as  a  fawn  might  have  stood.  One  brown 
arm  and  hand  rested  on  the  door  frame,  and,  as  she  saw 
the  other  woman,  she  colored  adorably. 

Adrienne  thought  she  had  never  seen  so  instinctively 
and  unaffectedly  lovely  a  face  or  figure.  Then  the  girl 
came  down  the  steps  and  ran  toward  them. 

"Drennie,"  said  the  man,  "this  is  Sally.  I  want  you 
two  to  love  each  other."  For  an  instant,  Adrienne  Les- 
cott  stood  looking  at  the  mountain  girl,  and  then  she 
opened  both  her  arms. 

"Sally,"  she  cried,  "you  adorable  child,  I  do  love 
you!" 


344     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

The  girl  in  the  calico  dress  raised  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  were  glistening. 

"I'm  obleeged  ter  ye,"  she  faltered.  Then,  with  open 
and  wondering  admiration  she  stood  gazing  at  the  first 
"fine  lady"  upon  whom  her  glance  had  ever  fallen. 

Samson  went  over  and  took  Sally's  hand. 

"Drennie,"  he  said,  softly,  "is  there  anything  the 
matter  with  her?" 

Adrienne  Lescott  shook  her  head. 

"I  understand,"  she  said. 

"I  sent  the  others  on,"  he  went  on  quietly,  "because 
I  wanted  that  first  we  three  should  meet  alone.  George 
and  Wilfred  are  going  to  stop  at  my  uncle's  house,  but, 
unless  you'd  rather  have  it  otherwise,  Sally  wants  you 
here." 

"Do  I  stop  now  ?"  the  girl  asked. 

But  the  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  my  other  people  first." 

As  they  rode  at  a  walk  along  the  little  shred  of  road 
left  to  them,  the  man  turned  gravely. 

"Drennie,"  he  began,  "she  waited  for  me,  all  those 
years.  What  I  was  helped  to  do  by  such  splendid 
friends  as  you  and  your  brother  and  Wilfred,  she  was 
back  here  trying  to  do  for  herself.  I  told  you  back 
there  the  night  before  I  left  that  I  was  afraid  to  let 
myself  question  my  feelings  toward  you.  Do  you 
remember  ?" 

She  met  his  eyes,  and  her  own  eyes  were  frankly 
smiling. 

"You  were  very  complimentary,  Samson,"  she  told 
him.  "I  warned  you  then  that  it  was  the  moon  talking." 

"No,"  he  said  firmly,  "it  was  not  the  moon.     I  have 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     345 

since  then  met  that  fear,  and  analyzed  it.  My  feeling 
for  you  is  the  best  that  a  man  can  have,  the  honest 
worship  of  friendship.  And,"  he  added,  "'I  have  ana 
lyzed  your  feeling  for  me,  too,  and,  thank  God !  I  have 
that  same  friendship  from  you.  Haven't  I?" 

For  a  moment,  she  only  nodded;  but  her  eyes  were 
bent  on  the  road  ahead  of  her.  The  man  waited  in 
tense  silence.  Then,  she  raised  her  face,  and  it  was  a 
face  that  smiled  with  the  serenity  of  one  who  has 
wakened  out  of  a  troubled  dream. 

"You  will  always  have  that,  Samson,  dear,"  she 
assured  him. 

"Have  I  enough  of  it,  to  ask  you  to  do  for  her  what 
you  did  for  me?  To  take  her  and  teach  her  the  things 
she  has  the  right  to  know?" 

"I'd  love  it,"  she  cried.  And  then  she  smiled,  as  she 
added :  "She  will  be  much  easier  to  teach.  She  won't  be 
so  stupid,  and  one  of  the  things  I  shall  teach  her" — 
she  paused,  and  added  whimsically — "will  be  to  make 
you  cut  your  hair  again." 

But,  just  before  they  drew  up  at  the  house  of  old 
Spicer  South,  she  said: 

"I  might  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  Samson, 
and  give  my  vanity  the  punishment  it  deserves.  You 
had  me  in  deep  doubt." 

"About  what?" 

"About — well,  about  us.  I  wasn't  quite  sure  that  I 
wanted  Sally  to  have  you — that  I  didn't  need  you  my 
self.  I've  been  a  shameful  little  cat  to  Wilfred." 

"But  now—?"     The  Kentuckian  broke  off. 

"Now,  I  know  that  my  friendship  for  you  and  my 
love  for  him  have  both  had  their  acid  test — and  I  am 


346     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 

happier  than  I've  ever  been  before.  I'm  glad  we've 
been  through  it.  There  are  no  doubts  ahead.  I've  got 
you  both." 

"About  him,"  said  Samson,  thoughtfully.  "May  I 
tell  you  something  which,  although  it's  a  thing  in  your 
own  heart,  you  have  never  quite  known?" 

She  nodded,  and  he  went  on. 

"The  thing  which  you  call  fascination  in  me  was 
really  just  a  proxy,  Drennie.  You  were  liking  qualities 
in  me  that  were  really  his  qualities.  Just  because  you 
had  known  him  only  in  gentle  guise,  his  finish  blinded 
you  to  his  courage.  Because  he  could  turn  'to  woman 
the  heart  of  a  woman,'  you  failed  to  see  that  under  it 
was  the  'iron  and  fire.'  You  thought  you  saw  those 
qualities  in  me,  because  I  wore  my  bark  as  shaggy  as 
that  scaling  hickory  over  there.  When  he  was  getting 
anonymous  threats  of  death  every  morning,  he  didn't 
mention  them  to  you.  He  talked  of  teas  and  dances.  I 
know  his  danger  was  real,  because  they  tried  to  have  me 
kill  him — and  if  I'd  been  the  man  they  took  me  for,  I 
reckon  I'd  have  done  it.  I  was  mad  to  my  marrow  that 
night — for  a  minute.  I  don't  hold  a  brief  for  Wilfred, 
but  I  know  that  you  liked  me  first  for  qualities  which 
he  has  as  strongly  as  I — and  more  strongly.  He's  a 
braver  man  than  I,  because,  though  raised  to  gentle 
things,  when  you  ordered  him  into  the  fight,  he  was 
there.  He  never  turned  back,  or  flickered.  I  was  raised 
on  raw  meat  and  gunpowder,  but  he  went  in  without 
training." 

The  girl's  eyes  grew  grave  and  thoughtful,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  way  she  rode  in  silence. 

There  were  transformations,  too,  in  the  house  of 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS     347 

Spicer  South.  Windows  had  been  cut,  and  lamps 
adopted.  It  was  no  longer  so  crudely  a  pioneer  abode. 
While  they  waited  for  dinner,  a  girl  lightly  crossed  the 
stile,  and  came  up  to  the  house.  Adrienne  met  her  at 
the  door,  while  Samson  and  Horton  stood  back,  waiting. 
Suddenly,  Miss  Lescott  halted  and  regarded  the  new 
comer  in  surprise.  It  was  the  same  girl  she  had  seen, 
yet  a  different  girl.  Her  hair  no  longer  fell  in  tangled 
masses.  Her  feet  were  no  longer  bare.  Her  dress, 
though  simple,  was  charming,  and,  when  she  spoke,  her 
English  had  dropped  its  half-illiterate  peculiarities, 
though  the  voice  still  held  its  bird-like  melody. 

"Oh,  Samson,"  cried  Adrienne,  "you  two  have  been 
deceiving  me !  Sally,  you  were  making  up,  dressing  the 
part  back  there,  and  letting  me  patronize  you." 

Sally's  laughter  broke  from  her  throat  in  a  musical 
peal,  but  it  still  held  the  note  of  shyness,  and  it  was 
Samson  who  spoke. 

"I  made  the  others  ride  on,  and  I  got  Sally  to  meet 
you  just  as  she  was  when  I  left  her  to  go  East."  He 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  the  mountaineer's  over-sensitive 
pride.  "I  wanted  you  first  to  see  my  people,  not  as  they 
are  going  to  be,  but  as  they  were.  I  wanted  you  to 
know  how  proud  I  am  of  them — just  that  way." 

That  evening,  the  four  of  them  walked  together  over 
to  the  cabin  of  the  Widow  Miller.  At  the  stile,  Adrienne 
Lescott  turned  to  the  girl,  and  said: 

"I  suppose  this  place  is  preempted.  I'm  going  to 
take  Wilfred  down  there  by  the  creek,  and  leave  you 
two  alone." 

Sally  protested  with  mountain  hospitality,  but  even 
under  the  moon  she  once  more  colored  adorably. 


348     THE  CALL  OF  TPIE  CUMBERLANDS 

Adrienne  turned  up  the  collar  of  her  sweater  around 
her  throat,  and,  when  she  and  the  man  who  had  waited, 
stood  leaning  on  the  rail  of  the  footbridge,  she  laid  a 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Has  the  water  flowed  by  my  mill,  Wilfred?"  she 
asked. 

"What  do  you  mean?"    His  voice  trembled. 

"Will  you  have  anything  to  ask  me  when  Christmas 
comes  ?" 

"If  I  can  wait  that  long,  Drennie,"  he  told  her. 

"Don't  wait,  dear,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  turning 
toward  him,  and  raising  eyes  that  held  his  answer.  "Ask 
me  now !" 

But  the  question  which  he  asked  was  one  that  his 
lips  smothered  as  he  pressed  them  against  her  own. 

Back  where  the  poplar  threw  its  sooty  shadow  on  the 
road,  two  figures  sat  close  together  on  the  top  of  a 
stile,  talking  happily  in  whispers.  A  girl  raised  her 
face,  and  the  moon  shone  on  the  deepness  of  her  eyes,  as 
her  lips  curved  in  a  trembling  smile. 

"You've  come  back,  Samson,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"but,  if  I'd  known  how  lovely  she  was,  I'd  have  given 
up  hoping.  I  don't  see  what  made  you  come." 

Her  voice  dropped  again  into  the  tender  cadence  of 
dialect. 

"I  couldn't  live  withouten  ye,  Samson.  I  jest  couldn't 
do  hit."  Would  he  remember  when  she  had  said  that 
before  ? 

"I  reckon,  Sally,"  he  promptly  told  her,  "I  couldn't 
live  withouten  you,  neither."  Then,  he  added,  fervently, 
"I'm  plumb  dead  shore  I  couldn't." 

THE    END 


A- 


N. 


